


Earthly Scene

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Porn, Body Worship, Do not repost, Don't copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Internal Conflict, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-03-09 03:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18908620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: In which Monteriggioni has a significant vacancy and Desmond's timing is almost divine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread by Nimadge, many thanks
> 
> Background music: [Hozier - Take Me To Church](https://youtu.be/PVjiKRfKpPI) and [Everybody's Gone to Rapture soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w40whIS7dNE&list=PLhPp-QAUKF_hRMjWsYvvdazGw0qIjtSXJ)

There is someone already in the dining hall when Claudia enters it – Carlotta, perfectly well done in her carmine red dress, drinking tea while the maid sets the table. It's not an unusual sight – the Madame of Fiore Mortale is one of the more common visitors in the Auditore villa, really, being in charge of the most successful business in Monteriggioni… but usually she tends to visit later in the afternoon, not first thing in the morning. Like most prostitutes, Carlotta generally keeps late hours in all things – including when she gets up.

"You're up and about early, Madame," Claudia greets the older woman and goes to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Good morning. I hope it is nothing serious."

"Oh, I would have been banging on your door if it was – no, not as serious as all that. Good morning, my lady," Carlotta says, smiling. "One of my girls was out and about late, and she spotted something on her way home I thought you would like to know sooner rather than later."

"And yet it's not as serious as all that? Then surely you could have sent one of your girls to tell me?" Claudia asks while taking seat, waving off the maid who rushes to serve her.

"I was up anyway, and I thought I could use a little luxury," Carlotta says, a little conspiratorially, and lifts hey tea cup. "And perhaps a spot of gossip."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You see, Annetta saw a _monk_ entering the town."

Claudia pauses at that. "A monk?" she repeats a little incredulously while Carlotta grins, her cheeks dimpling. " _Here_?"

Since Ezio had funded the restoration of the brothel, Monteriggioni as a whole had been all but excommunicated, just short of having been declared a heretical nest of sin and sodomy. Being a known base for Assassins was likely the actual cause and the brothel only an excuse – they had many enemies in the church, thanks to Ezio's exploits. The only reason they didn't have worse trouble for their crimes and vices was likely due to their close ties to the Medici and Florence, keeping their enemies in check… for now. But as a result of it all… Monteriggioni wasn't exactly a place men of God were eager to visit.

The last time Claudia had spotted a person in a religious habit anywhere near the town, she's been riding with her mother, and the monks they'd passed by all made signs of the cross to ward off the evil they presented. It would have been amusing – had it not broken Maria's heart so.

"Are you certain it was a monk and not a man in disguise?" Claudia asks, dubiously. Everyone in Monteriggioni knows to be wary of potential spies – but it would surely make better sense that way.

"The man didn't even have shoes, my dear – he'd make a poor spy without shoes. I set Saverio to watch him, of course," Carlotta says, waving a hand reassuringly. "But Annetta says he looked poor and humble and hungry – if also very pretty."

" _Pretty_ ," Claudia repeats, arching a brow.

"Mm-hmm. Annetta would have approached him, had it looked like he had any coin. Apparently she was tempted anyway, just for his looks," Carlotta says, amused. "Spies are rarely picked for their good looks – pretty spies are far too easy to spot. Still, I thought you would like to know anyway."

"Hmm, yes, thank you," Claudia agrees and leans back, considering it. Uncle Mario is out, having a scuffle in San Gimignano, probably, and Ezio is who knows where, doing who knows what. Should the monk prove a spy after all, it would be up to her to deal with it. And if not… well, that would be even more interesting. And possibly concerning.

"Saverio is on him?" Claudia clarifies and Carlotta nods. "Please have him report what he sees to me – there's coin and a hot meal in the villa in it for him, if he does well."

"With that incentive, you'll have more than just what he sees," Carlotta says admonishingly. "Don't overpay people, Claudia, not even your own – especially not when they are already paid. The coin will be enough."

Claudia hesitates. "A meal in the villa is worth that much?"

"Day of luxury in the presence of lords and ladies in their grand halls is a gift to be given with great consideration – not at a whim," Carlotta says and stands. "We have so little greatness here, and its shine and allure is a powerful tool for persuading the people here – don't diminish its value so easily. Lord knows your brother does you no favours with it."

Claudia sighs. "I don't want to stand above the people of Monteriggioni. Uncle Mario doesn't," she murmurs. Monteriggioni is so small and it's people still so few – it feels vile to hang onto pretence of aristocracy among them, when they are all so poor – and when her family is in such state of dishonour.

Carlotta looks at her and smiles, patting her cheek. "You are a dear. The people want it. To have a high lady there with her fancy things and learned ways is such a great thing for the wretched – it makes it feel as if a person of greatness has deemed us worthy of her time and consideration. Just her presence is a gift for the poor."

But it's all pretence. Auditore family is almost as poor and bankrupt as the people of Monteriggioni – their only income is Ezio's bloody ways, and those are far from reliable. The windows of the villa are still boarded up and Claudia has been wearing the same dress for months, it's a disgrace. Surely everyone can see how low they have fallen?

Carlotta chuckles, likely reading some of her thoughts on her face. "Diminish the shine of greatness by sharing it too willingly with the undeserving, and you undervalue not only yourself and your time... but also those you treat thusly."

"Pretence of elitism makes me elite, then?" Claudia asks, a little irritable now.

"Yes – and it is _grand_ ," Carlotta says with a laugh. "Give Saverio coins and he will have something to boast and feel big about – give him your time and he will wonder what is the matter with _you_."

Claudia sighs. To think she thought there would be less societal politics in Monteriggioni than there were in Florence – but in Florence she was surrounded by people of equal or greater standing. Here… she is the greatest, it seems.

And damn if it doesn't grate.

"Very well, coins alone," Claudia says and looks at Carlotta. "But what does _our_ association mean, for my false grandiosity?"

"That beneath it all, you are a cunning woman who knows the value and practicality of things down to Earth," Carlotta says with a smile. "But now you know why I declined your dinner invitations."

Apparently to save face. Claudia face, as it happens.

Carlotta leaves and the maid begins serving breakfast. The nurse comes in to beg Maria's excuses – she wishes to be left in peace, again. It would be another day, at least, before she came out of her room. So, alone at the table of pretend exclusivity, Claudia sighs and acutely misses the time she had the luxury of entertaining friendships.

* * *

 

Saverio comes to her late afternoon, hat in hand and stories to tell. He's a young man, more of a boy really, on the verge of breaking his voice and starting to break hearts. Time would tell if he would stay in the employment of Fiore Mortale. For now, he tends to mostly run errands – and watch people who need watching.

The monk, whom Claudia just expected to leave as soon as whatever business he had was concluded, had not left. Nor had he started snooping around, or hold sermons on sin and vice – or even visit the poor church of Monteriggioni, still in disuse and disrepair. No, instead the monk had found a bench, and promptly fallen asleep on it, in the shade of a cypress tree.

"Honestly he seemed more like a beggar to me, than a man from a monastery," Saverio says. "But he has robes and even a rosary and a cross, so I suppose he is a monk. A poor one."

"Monks tend to swear oaths of poverty," Claudia says. "I assume he didn't stay asleep?"

"Old Man Guido woke him up, before noon," Saverio agrees. "I couldn't hear what they spoke of at first, I was further away, but when I got closer, Old Man Guido was asking about God and scripture and demanding the monk pray for his wife."

Guido was once a commander of Monteriggioni forces, before age and injury had caught up with him – now he's a demanding nuisance to anyone he manages to catch. A good sum of complaints Claudia receives are about Old Man Guido bothering people – or from him, complaining about the people complaining about him.

It's been especially bad since Guido's wife, Ortensia, fell ill and the doctor could not promise her recovery. It gives him some leeway and people forgive him some of his outbursts – but not all.

"How did the monk react?" Claudia asks with a sigh.

"Mostly I think he was only confused – poor fella looks exhausted. They did talk about God, and the monk promised to pray and such," Saverio says. "And then they talked a whole lot about Guido's old woman and Guido cried."

Claudia blinks, taken aback. "Old Guido _cried_?" she repeats, just to make sure she didn't mishear.

"Like a baby, right there where everyone could see," Saverio says, grinning and rocking on the balls of his feet, proud to be bringing this news to her. "After that he and the monk went on a walk – I followed, of course. They talked about – about letting go, forgiveness, enjoying the time you have left, things like that, how Old Man Guido should be spending time with his wife. Never seen the old man like that."

"Hmm," Claudia agrees. Likely neither had anyone else – the most you tended to get out of Guido was either curses and insults or old war stories. She had tried to offer her help once, and afterwards swore to never do it again – nothing was worth the abuse she got for her efforts. "What happened then?"

According to Saverio, Guido had headed home and the monk had been accosted by another person from the town – Madame Ranieri, who had great concerns about the status of her soul, living next to the renovated Fiore Mortale as she did. The monk had reassured her that what others do around her had no effect on her soul – not unless she tried to force her will upon others, at which point it would be a different thing.

There were other similar incidents – people approaching the monk on matters of sin and soul and asking, in so many words, for some judgement or absolution for themselves or those around them.

Claudia hums thoughtfully, rubbing her hands together as she listens to Saverio's report. From what she can tell, the man had not expounded judgement on anyone or held any sermons, but how quickly people approached him is telling.

Monteriggioni has been a town without spiritual guide for a very long time. The restoration of the church was asked for most often – and the fact that Ezio had put his money on the brothel instead, while it made financial sense, had not made people happy.

Every Sunday good fifty people set out from Monteriggioni to attend to the mass in Siena. With the countryside covered in restlessness and plagued by opportunistic bandits, it wasn't a happy voyage for them to make. Claudia had made it herself with mother a few times, but the danger was far too great, and not worth the welcome and treatment they were given once there. But as Monteriggioni had no working church and no priest to manage it…

The first time a citizen of Monteriggioni had died and had to be then buried in Siena, it had felt as though a personal failing. The first time a young lady from Monteriggioni rode to be married in Siena was a worse blow still. Baptisms were the same… and of course no one had place to make their confessions, find their solace and forgiveness.

And in Monteriggioni no one expected to have their last rites read to them.

Lack of a church was one of the major reasons why people were still more eager to move out than they were to stay.

"Where is this monk now?" Claudia asks, while giving the young lad his coin.

"He was hovering by the market street," Saverio says, flipping the coin in his fingers and then quickly hiding it away. "I can show you."

"Please do."

* * *

 

The monk looks worse – and prettier – than Claudia had expected. He's young, cannot be yet thirty, and quite the sight to behold with his well-defined features, high cheekbones, a noble Roman nose…

But he also looks thin to the point of starvation, with shadows under his eyes and exhausted expression. His feet are bare, as Carlotta said, and they look sore and dirty from a long time of walking. And though the dark monk's robe he wears could easily be used to hide any number of weapons, how loosely it hangs upon his tall, lean frame tells Claudia he's doing no such thing.

The monk is sitting near the blacksmith's shop, with a young girl sitting beside him. Emiliana, Claudia remembers – she lives in the brothel, her mother had died last winter in childbirth. They are talking, and judging by how at ease Emiliana is, they have been talking for a little while now.

"... what is or isn't sin, I don't think that's up to me," the monk is saying while turning a bit of bread in his hands. "But I think… if it hurts no one, and causes no one harm or ill, or takes something away from someone else… it's probably alright."

"Everyone says she was bad though. That she went to hell," Emiliana says quietly, staring down to a piece of bread she's holding – it looks like the half of the bread in the monk's hands.

"I don't think that's up to just anyone to decide," the monk says and looks at her. "Was your mother bad, was she mean? Did she do bad things to other people?"

"No, I don't think so. She was just – she was just a whore," the girl murmurs, pouting. "And that's the worst thing you can be."

"Not even close to the worst thing, that," the monk says and looks at her. "So your mother gave other people pleasure. That's not a bad thing, I don't think," he says and shrugs. "So as long as no one was hurt in the process or forced to do something they didn't like, I don't see what's wrong with that."

"Sometimes she slept with women." It's said like a dare, the girl glancing at the monk challengingly.

"So do a lot of other people," the monk says with a snort and breaks off a piece of the bread. "Hell would be a damn busy place, if that was all it took. A lot of men there."

"... You said _damn_ ," the girl says, wide-eyed and then leans in to ask conspiratorially, "Are monks allowed to _say_ that?"

The monk grins and shoves the bread into his mouth. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm not a very good monk," he says.

They spot Claudia then and Emiliana jumps to her feet, alarmed. As the monk lifts his head, Emiliana hesitates, curtsies to him hurriedly, saying, "I have to go, chores – I have chores!" and then she dashes away, almost as if she'd been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to.

Claudia looks after her a little regretfully – she didn't mean to startle the poor girl. Then she looks at the monk, taking in the short shorn hair, the stubble, the gaunt cheeks. He certainly looks like he used to have a monk's shaved head – but maybe it was a little while ago. His eyes are clear and intelligent though, warm golden brown in hue. Had it not been for the monk's habit, his looks might've been enough to make her catch her breath.

"That was a kind thing you did, telling her that," Claudia says tentatively.

The monk hesitates and then clears his throat. "She asked, I gave my opinion," he says quietly and looks down. "Who tells a little girl her dead mother is burning in hell, seriously? That's not right."

"Self-righteous people, I've found – who like to feel superior over others," Claudia comments, thoughtfully. She's inclined to like him – his words from before were spoken easily, without mockery, without superiority. It reminds her of the better monks she'd once known, in Florence – where people could better afford kindness and charity. "What brings you to Monteriggioni, Brother…?"

The monk doesn't answer immediately, looking around. Then he lets out a sigh. "Desmond," he says with an oddly resigned voice. "And I have no idea. I guess it seemed like the place to be."

A curious way to put it. Claudia looks at him and then sits beside him in the spot Emiliana had vacated. "You've left your monastery," she guesses. He looks bad enough that he might've actually been thrown out.

Brother Desmond doesn't answer, picking at the bit of bread he has. He's eating it slowly, stretching it out as much as he can, it looks like. He likely hasn't had much to eat in a while, certainly he's fallen on hard times. And yet… he'd shared his bread with Emiliana, who despite her situation had plenty enough to eat.

Claudia lets the silence go on for a moment, turning her eyes to the street. There are few people there, checking the two market stalls selling fresh food – mostly vegetables and herbs from the nearby countryside. It's definitely no bustling marketplace fit for a fortress such as Monteriggioni, and the farmers selling their food don't look too happy with their sales.

But at least now people come in to sell their wares – when she, Ezio and their mother had moved to Monteriggioni, there was only one merchant for food, and he only visited twice a week. Now there are daily food stalls.

"How do you like the town?" Claudia asks, glancing at him.

Brother Desmond, his bread down to last mouthfuls, sighs. "I like it very much," he says almost wistfully – and it sounds completely sincere. It also sounds like he expects to be thrown out of it.

"It's a little run down," Claudia says, thoughtful. A spy might try to flatter, or point out flaws, hem and haw on his opinion – he sounded honest. "And it's rather quiet."

"Is it? Can't really tell," Brother Desmond says and picks his bread apart, eating a piece, savouring it. "Fix up a few buildings and it'll be as good as new – people will come in and it'll get busier."

"You think so?" Claudia asks and he nods, casually confident. "It's a nice thought. Maybe one day," Claudia says and tilts her head at him. "We have a church here. It's a little run down too, very quiet. Would you like to see it?"

The monk looks at her and then finishes his bread, brushing his hands together. They're big, long-fingered hands, very clean. "I guess I would," he says and stands up. He's quite a bit taller than she'd realised - taller than even Uncle Mario, it looks like.  "I would like that very much."

Claudia nods and stands up as well. "Right this way."

* * *

 

The church of Monteriggioni is the very definition of humble. It's small, it's not grand – the windows are broken, the doors boarded up. Even the bell is broken, and has not been rung once since she and her family moved into the town. Even from the outside, the building looks sad, abandoned, and decades past its prime.

It's certainly no Santa Maria del Fiore.

"We haven't had a priest here for many years," Claudia admits, as she and the monk eye the front of the forgotten church. "I suppose Monteriggioni isn't a sort of town many priests would like to join, not even to bring our sinful souls into the embrace of God."

"I don't know about sinful. People here have been very welcoming," Brother Desmond says, noncommittal, peering up at the little bell tower.

Claudia considers him, folding her arms. Whatever Old Guido had said or demanded seemed welcoming to him? "Why did you come here, Brother Desmond?" she asks. "Are you heading somewhere, or… are you looking for a place to stay?"

He blinks and looks down at her with some surprise. "Well – stay, if I can," he says, sounding a little startled. "I – I mean," he starts and then hesitates, considering her. "If that's possible, then – I would like to stay here. I can work, I can earn my keep. Um... I don't know what I could do, but…"

Claudia tilts her head a little, considering his expression. It looks like honest astonishment. Spy would've been seeking to take advantage – Brother Desmond only looks at her in baffled disbelief, like he can't believe is luck.

Claudia smiles and decides she does like him. "Then it is settled," she says and motions to the church. "I haven't funds to give you to renovate her," she says apologetically. "But she's yours, if you can do anything for her – and there will be pay in it, if you can… carry out the duties here."

"H-here – in the church, you mean –? I'm not a _priest_ ," Brother Desmond says quickly and shakes his head. "I wouldn't know what to do!"

"I've heard you talking to the people of this town, I heard you talk to Emiliana," Claudia says and shrugs. "If you can continue along that line, it will be better than the job no one is currently doing."

Chances are, no proper priest would enter Monteriggioni, not willingly, and she's not yet desperate enough to kidnap one. Yet they need a priest, or someone to perform the duties of one, that's been made plainly evident. And now here is a runaway monk with likely an awkward history with the church and some frankly unorthodox ideals – not a sin to sleep with women, indeed. If he can be so kind to the bastard daughter of a whore and can handle Old Guido well enough to make him break down and _cry_ …

"What do you say?" Claudia asks and holds out her hand. "There are many empty houses, some near to the church. A job, roof over your head, food on your table… it's not a bad deal."

"It's not – but it comes with a lot of responsibility," Brother Desmond says warily, glancing between her and the church. "I'm not sure I'm up for it."

"You will never know if you don't try," Claudia points out. "If it doesn't work, it doesn't work – we will know and move on."

He looks a little surprised by that, giving her a considering, maybe even an approving look. Then looks at the church. "Hm," he says then and nods, turning to face her fully. "I guess we will," he says and takes her hand. "I… I will do my best."

Claudia smiles and they shake. Yes, she has a feeling Brother Desmond would fit within Monteriggioni splendidly. And if he wouldn't and if he proved to be a spy after all… well. Her family are Assassins.

It wouldn't be difficult at all, getting rid of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, if you read Hungry Work? This is the idea I had for that story, except reworked because as fun as Hungry Work came out... I decided I didn't like the vibe of it. So, yeah. What happened in Hungry Work has no bearing on this - Ezio and Desmond have not met yet. This is whole new day.
> 
> This one is gonna have a... slower burn.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Desmond manages to get into the church, he's gathered and lost most of an audience, he's soaked his stolen robes through with sweat and his hands are shaking. Whoever boarded up the place seemed to have done it with the intention of no one ever getting inside again – all the windows and the doors were really nailed up, big nails hammered in deep. The fact that they'd rusted over since didn't help in removing them.

The doors are completely busted by the time he actually gets them open – there'd be no saving them. What on earth he's going to do about replacing them, he has no idea. The windows are in a bad shape too, the wooden frames broken and rotten – and there's just unimaginable work to be done, fixing the place up. And the inside… well, the stonework looks good?

Sighing, Desmond sinks to sit on the step leading up to where the altar should be, looking around. There's just nothing left in there. No altar, no podium, nothing. Not that he actually knows what there should be in a Catholic church, not really. This place looks stripped bare, though. The pews are missing – maybe whoever closed the church up used them for the boarding of the doors, who knows. There's nothing left in the church, no religious imagery, no benches, nothing, not even a single chandelier.

Running a hand over his sweaty face, Desmond imagines some irate priest packing his things up and angrily boarding up the little church, damming all of Monteriggioni to hell as heathens. It kind of feels like that's what happened – like the place was abandoned with _vengeance,_ and with the expectation that no one would pick it up again, like no one should.

There isn't even a single cross here. It's kind of sad, really.

The few people who had been watching him more or less break into the church hover by the broken door, an elderly woman stepping in very tentatively. Desmond's fight with the church doors had gathered a bit of an audience at first, but after the first couple of hours only a handful of people had stuck around. Mostly older folk, who seemed more personally invested.

"I haven't been inside here since I was a little girl," she murmurs, looking around sadly. "Look how rundown it has become."

Desmond glances back at her. Her name is Bettina, he thinks – Bettina Ali – Alo – something. It's hard to keep track of people – he's been introduced to so many in a very short time. He's pretty sure her first name is Bettina, though. "This place has been closed off for that long?"

She lets out a little laugh. "Well, I was away for twenty odd years when I was younger, lived with my husband in Siena. But I think it's been thirty years now?"

"Twenty nine," an older man, Stefano, who'd lent Desmond his old tools, says, leaning onto a roughly carved cane as he peers around. "Seem to recall there having been benches in here..."

"We should pray for the church's quick restoration," another man in the back says – Desmond doesn't think he's caught his name yet.

"Pray where, to _what_? There isn't even an altar here, no icons, no tabernacle…!"

The milling crowd of about five citizens of Monteriggioni looks around hesitantly and then they look to Desmond, sitting there, on the floor, still sweaty and dirty from the work of just getting the doors open. They look at him like he's supposed to know what to do.

Desmond has no idea. The most he knows about any religion comes from pop culture, and from what he'd seen in the Animus – and Rebecca and Shaun had dialed the stuff down to a bare minimum to keep it from _being a distraction,_ or something. He's never even prayed, and the times he'd visited any real life church could be counted with one hand. Honestly, his most profound church experience was Santa Maria Aracoeli, and that had been with Juno spouting her crap in his ear. And he'd been climbing all over the crosses and rafters and stuff, it hadn't been particularly respectful.

Running a hand over his neck, Desmond glances around and – thinking of the rafters and the beautiful ceiling of Santa Maria Aracoeli, he looks up. This church has not only a plain ceiling, but it's rough wood and not in the best of shape. Probably leaks too. There are rafters through – and on the rafters… He remembers now, vaguely, visiting this place as Ezio, climbing the rafters – finding a little platform up there...

The wooden platform is there, right above the doors Desmond had just spent better part of four hours trying to crack open – and through the cracked and old boards he can see a glimmer of something shiny and important.

"Brother?" one of the townspeople says tentatively. "Should we not pray for the God to restore the church?"

Desmond looks down and clears his throat, standing up. "I think God would like to see us do the work ourselves," he says awkwardly. "But we can pray for strength and patience to do it, and maybe a little luck." That one would definitely come in handy right now.

The people in the church shuffle awkwardly, looking at him expectantly – waiting for him to lead. Alright then. "Right, gather around," Desmond says, motioning them to come closer. "And let's, let's bow our heads."

It's no different than leading karaoke at Bad Weather, he thinks to himself. Just with less terrible singing, he hopes. And more God and goodwill. How do people pray in the movies? Probably rude to just start demanding shit from God… do priests address God as God – or as Lord? Probably more polite that way,..

His first prayer. Better make it a good one.

"Thank you, oh Lord," Desmond starts, enunciating carefully and trying his hardest not to put any _ums_ or _errs_ in there, "for this chance to restore this fine building to its proper glory. Please let us find the strength and will within ourselves to do the work required and the fortune to see it completed properly. Amen."

There's sharp a crack of wood and Desmond looks up, expecting to see the abused doors falling off their rusted hinges. It's not the doors, though they are creaking slightly as the wind outside tugs on them.

No, it's the platform.

As he and the five citizens of Monteriggioni watch, one of the supports under the wooden platform begins giving away, breaking of its hold on the wall beside the door. The brick and mortar there had crumbled and the wooden beam comes loose – and the platform begins tilting down.

Desmond quickly pushes the people under the platform out of the harm's way – and then the chests fall on him, first one and then the other. On autopilot, Desmond catches the first in his left arm and the second in his right, bending his knees a little to take the weight – except they're heavier than he thought and they come down hard.

His legs collapsing under him, Desmond winces as his knees bang on the hard stone floor, the chests almost falling from his arms. Quickly he sets them down and looks up in case the platform will fall too – but it's hanging onto the wall, and looks a lot more stable now that it doesn't have the weight of the chests on it.

"Saints preserve us!" Bettina gasps and makes the sign of the cross. She's not the only one.

"Oh my Lord, that startled me," Stefano grumbles and then looks at Desmond. "Brother Desmond, are you alright?"

"Yeah, just bruised knees at most, I'm alright," Desmond says. He backs away from the platform anyway, dragging the heavy chests with him and he goes. "It must've gotten loose while I was working on the door – is everyone alright? Nothing fell on you?"

They all came out unscathed, it looks like, and once the danger of the church dropping something else on them has passed, they all turn to look at the chests with mingled alarm and interest. Desmond turns them to the light coming through the door and then, with the same crowbar he'd opened the church doors, he opens the chests.

"Santa Maria, mother of God," someone whispers.

"It's a _miracle_."

The chests aren't full of florins, which would be a little disappointing if it weren't for what they are actually full of. There's candelabras in one of the chests along with a chalice and some other fancy, religious looking dishware – under them there is a cloth, which Desmond vaguely remember sitting on the altar. The dishes and – maybe those are for burning incense? They look like they're made of silver, whatever they are.

And then there is the other chest.

Wrapped in white linen there is a cross, heavy and at least gold plated. Under that there is a couple of books – all in Latin – along with wooden icons. They're old and not in the best shape, but they're clear enough that Desmond can tell what they depict – Mary and Jesus are pretty much unmistakeable, even for a lifelong atheist. There's also a couple of rolled up paintings, which make a scary crackling sound when he tries to unfold them. Desmond leaves them carefully rolled up, taking one of the icons instead, holding Mary's face to the light.

It's not as grandiose as the ceiling of Santa Maria Aracoeli – but it is pretty.

"It is a sign," someone murmurs. "We have been given a sign, our quest to restore the church had been blessed!"

"I remember this," one of the older women says, reaching for the rolled up painting, nudging at the corner. "I remember the colours. It hung in the back there, the Assumption of Mary."

Desmond looks up. "So these are the church's relics," he says and looks down at them. He hums, not sure if to be amused or a little spooked. "Maybe it _is_ a sign."

"Could use more of those around here," Stefano agrees and knocks at Desmond's side with his cane. "Santa Maria has blessed you, Brother."

Desmond doesn't know what to say to that, so he just shrugs, eying the relics. It's a little weird. As Ezio he didn't find any religious artefacts here – just money. Did that mean that all the chests Ezio raided weren't actually full of riches – just goods? And did that then mean that Ezio… sold this stuff for money? Desmond can't remember seeing any of these in the rebuilt church, and some of these things do look valuable… it's kinda sad, thinking that Ezio just turned them over for cash, though. Maybe it was just the Animus cutting corners.

The people stare at him expectantly, waiting to see what he'd do, and Desmond hesitates. He can't just go and hang this stuff up, not when there's repairs to be done. It might just get busted up worse than it is. And he doesn't know what to do with the art anyway, the paintings – with his luck he'll break the them by opening them.

"Well," he says to the expectant faces. "We'll take it as a good sign, but – let's not jump ahead of ourselves. There's still lot of work to be done here. These," he motions to the chests before closing them. "These are a good goal to have. One day we'll have the church done up right, and we can hang this stuff where it belongs. Until then, it needs to be kept safe."

The old folk look a little disappointed, but understanding – the church is in a state, after all. "Where are you going to keep them?" Stefano asks, squinting at him.

"Hmm," Desmond answers. He'd been given a little house just next to the church, but it's not what he'd call secure. He doesn't have the money to engage with the bank…

The Auditore have a lot of paintings. Maybe Claudia would know what he should do about these ones – if there's a way to restore them. Plus, the Auditore villa is probably a safer place to store the relics for now. Desmond had broken the door, after all.

* * *

 

Desmond hadn't really had the chance to see Auditore villa up close yet. First he'd been accosted by townspeople, and then Claudia had hired him to work on the church, and that had taken all his attention, so there hadn't been any time to do it yet. And also maybe he hadn't really… dared to.

He'd come to Monteriggioni in hopes of finding some sort of clarity – maybe even help. Or, failing that, a damn good reason to keep his distance and not get involved with actual historical events. What happened, with Claudia hiring him to manage the church, kind of made everything go a little sideways – it feels like a dream and also like a leap of faith into a ravine, being here like this. He'd grabbed the first disguise he could, he hadn't even thought about it – and now…

Now people look at him funny for a whole different reason than because he's wearing a hoodie and jeans, and somehow that's okay? Only it makes him feel like the worst kind of sneak and a liar, pretending to be a monk, taking up Claudia's offer. He kind of feels like those stories of people pretending to be royalty of distant – or nonexistent – lands in order to gain favour from locals who don't know any better. Not that… taking up the management of a rundown church in what looks like a still somewhat poor fortress is going to get him many favours.

The whole thing feels bizarre. The only reason he isn't still completely convinced that he's dreaming this all up in some sort of Animus-induced haze is because of how hungry he is. He never got hungry in the Animus – he starved, yeah, but he never noticed it until he got out of the thing. Here… here it seems to be a constant reminder of how physically he really is here – and how poorly he's managing it.

Walking up the arching stairs with bare, dirty feet, with chests full of religious artefacts – that's definitely not how he imagined approaching the Auditore villa again. It adds another layer of weirdness to the whole thing – as does the respectful way people nod to him and give him way, and how the mercenaries practicing in the ring offer, with a hint of suspicion, to carry his things for him.

"I can manage, thanks," Desmond says.

"That looks heavy, Brother – a lot for a monk to carry," one of them says. "What do you have there?"

"Think we should take a look in there, could be something dangerous," another says, gripping at his belt – where he has a big knife, hanging just by his hand. "We've been tasked with protecting the villa, we should be checking these sort of things. I'm sure you understand."

Desmond tilts his head, curious. It sounds… vaguely like a threat. "If you'd like," he says mildly. "It's just some things from the church."

"Yes, the church – you'll be managing the church. Having sermons and such, taking confessions?"

Really not looking forward to it, but… "I suppose," Desmond agrees. "Why, do you have something to confess?"

"Oh, loads," the mercenary says and grins somewhat threateningly. "We got loads to confess, don't we, boys? All sorts of terrible things. Done some mean things in our time."

"Little bit of fighting, little bit of torture," one of them says, catching on.

"Adultery," another says, grinning. "Done a quite bit of that, yes – we have a brothel here, did you know? First thing Ser Ezio bought and paid for. Did great service for all of us."

"Ah yes, adultery," the first mercenary says. "Terrible, just terrible. And, oh, murder too. Quite a bit of that too."

"Oh yes, definitely. _Lots_ of murder."

Desmond looks between them, more confused than anything. They're trying to unnerve him, or maybe scare him. Definitely their body language is threatening, they're all leaning in all intimidating, watching for his reaction.  "Alright," Desmond says slowly, not sure if he should pretend to be scared or what. What's the etiquette here? He has no idea what to do. "I'm not sure any of that is anything to boast about, but… alright."

It's not what they were expecting, and they don't like it. One of them steps closer, narrowing his eyes. "Killed a few monks too," he says, leaning in even closer – which would probably have had a better effect, had Desmond not been taller than him. "And I ain't feeling no remorse for it either. What do you have to say about that, Brother?"

What does he want, a pat on the head? Desmond shakes his head. "I suppose that makes you a bit of a dick, but to each his own," he says. "Do you have a point?"

The mercenary blinks and then grimaces and goes for his knife – another of the mercenaries stops him, grabbing at his elbow. "Our point, _Brother_ ," he says, and pushes at Desmond's shoulder. "Is that you should mind your own business."

"Was I not?" Desmond mutters, still just baffled.

"Keep to that church, keep the old folk happy – and keep your head down," the mercenary says and points a finger at him. "You people take vows of poverty, right? We think it's best you _hold_ to that."

Desmond makes a face. What even…? "Alright, fine, whatever," he says and backs away. He's definitely not letting them see what's in the chests now. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Just keep your head down," the mercenary says again.

Shaking his head, Desmond hauls the chests up and then heads away, making sure the mercenaries stay where they are and don't follow him. Weird, he will need to keep an eye on them. He hadn't even considered some people might have a problem with the church being rebuilt or him being here, but… alright. Can't make everyone happy.

Desmond looks up, frowning – and then he sees it. The Auditore villa.

It looks like something out of a memory. The windows are mostly boarded up and the paint on the pillars is peeling off – it hasn't yet been renovated. Going by how young Claudia is, and the fact that the church and the barracks haven't yet been fixed – and how small all the stores are… Ezio hasn't really gotten into the swing of rebuilding Monteriggioni.

It's weird – it feels like he's gone back in time twice somehow. Like he hasn't only gone back in time – but while back in time, he's gone back in time in _this_ time.

"Can we help you with something?"

It's a young man in simple clothes and with just a hint of snootiness in his expression – servant at the villa, maybe?

"I want to speak with Claudia – Lady Auditore, I mean," Desmond says awkwardly and nods to the chests. "I found something at the church, I was hoping she could help me with it."

"And you are?" the servant asks imperiously.

Desmond blinks, a little unsure. What now? Also he kind of thought the word of him had already gone around the town – but maybe that was a bit arrogant of him. "Um, I'm – Desmond?" he offers. "Brother Desmond? Lady Claudia asked me to re-open the church, and I…"

The servant man sniffs. "And do you have any proof of this claim?"

"Marco, don't be a nuisance!" a female voice snaps from the inside, and a woman in apron and simple dress comes out. "I'm sorry about that, Brother Desmond, he's an idiot with a big head. Lady Claudia is waiting for you – right this way, please."

Desmond shakes his head slowly. "Thank you, um… miss?"

"Bianca Carsidoni – Marco is my brother, and an idiot, ignore him. We work here, at the villa, for the Auditore," the servant girl says and nods to the chests. "Do you need help with that, Brother?"

"No, thank you, I can manage – they're also pretty heavy," Desmond says, shaking his head again. Feels almost like he's getting whiplash here, between the way people are reacting to him. "Have you worked here for long?"

"Just for a couple of years," Bianca says, looks at the chests and then with a cheerful shrug she motions him to follow her. "Marco just started, so he's got a big head about it, acting all self important."

"I guess it's important work," Desmond murmurs and follows her inside. If walking up the stairs barefoot was weird, stepping on the perfectly polished marble floors of the villa is even more so – it feels like he's going to get the place dirty. Also, it's cold. He hadn't expected the floors to feel cold.

It's also strange in another way. The Auditore villa is… a lot bigger than it seemed in the Animus. It's still familiar, the mezzanine front hall with its impressive staircase and fancy architecture. The walls are bare though – no paintings, not yet. It's still in process of being rebuilt - and it doesn't look like Ezio has yet started accumulating treasures and funds.

"Right over there," Bianca says and motions to the right, towards Claudia's office.

Claudia is sitting by the desk, like in all the memories – but she has more than just the one book open before her, and a whole swathe of papers she's leafing through.

"Brother Desmond," Claudia says and looks up from something she's writing. "Welcome to the Auditore villa. I hear you managed to get the church doors open."

"Word travels fast," Desmond says, looking around for a place to put down the chests. The table with miniature Monteriggioni isn't there, and the corner where Leonardo had once painted is taken by a table and a couple of divans instead. Small changes, but they really bring it home, huh – how much this is not his Monteriggioni.

Desmond sets the chests down on the floor. "We found some treasures at the church," he says. "Nothing terribly valuable – aside from the candelabras maybe, but… I had to break the church doors, so I don't feel that secure leaving them where they were."

Claudia blinks and then leaves her papers, coming to see the chests. "We didn't think there was anything left in there."

"They were sort of hidden in the rafters," Desmond says and opens the chests. "There is a couple of paintings, I think they used to be on display at the church, but I'm not sure what to do with them. I figure people will want to see them hung up again, but… they look old, and I don't think I dare to even touch them."

Claudia considers the stuff in the chests and then looks at him, her eyes sharp and thoughtful. Desmond blinks, expectant, and she smiles, seeming satisfied. "My mother did some art in her time," Claudia says. "I will ask for her opinion, once she is feeling better. I assume you'd like to leave these treasures here?"

Her mother. Maria. Oh. "Um, yes, I figured they'd be safe here until I can safely put them up where they belong," Desmond says. "And I don't exactly have the funds to ask the bank to keep them."

"We'll be happy to store them for you," Claudia says with a nod. "And see if we can do anything for the paintings. Have you found anything else?"

"Just a lot of things to fix. The church doesn't have… much anything in it – no pews, no altar, nothing," Desmond says, closing the chests again and standing up. "But we got in, and that's already progress. The doors will have to be replaced though – just for a start."

Claudia hesitates at that, thinking. "There are no funds for that, or any other extensive repairs for that matter," she admits then and looks to her books. "And once we do have the funds… I have no doubt Uncle Mario and Ezio will prioritise the barracks instead."

Ah. That… might explain why the mercenaries were being dicks, they thought he was trying to inch in on their budget or something. Desmond considers Claudia and the lines under her eyes. She's not even twenty yet, is she? Not even twenty and already trying to run a city, managing its budgets and institutions.

"I guess I'll try and figure something out then," he says. "Don't worry about it."

Claudia blinks and looks at him. "You'll figure something out?" she asks dubiously.

"I'll hang a curtain or something over the door, it will be fine," Desmond says and shrugs. "I just rather not have the church's artefacts robbed in the meanwhile, if you can keep them safe that's already a big help."

She tilts her head and then smiles, nodding. "In that case, I am happy to be of service," she says. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

A crash course on Roman Catholic Church would help. "No, I don't want to bother you," Desmond says. She looks kind of tired and stressed out too, he doesn't want to add to that. "Though out of curiosity… your Uncle and Brother, are they not here?"

Claudia's expression shifts a little – closes up. "They have business elsewhere," she says firmly. "I have their full confidence and represent the highest authority in Monteriggioni."

"I don't doubt it," Desmond agrees, a little warily. Did he hit a nerve? "I was just – wondering if I could meet them, that's all." Though he's not sure he could meet Ezio and act normal. It's easy with Claudia – he's never been in her head – but Ezio is… Ezio. It would probably be a bit weird no matter how casual and normal he tried to act.

Probably just as well he isn't here.

"I will be happy to introduce you to them once they return," Claudia says and lifts her chin a little. "You can pay your respects then. Is there anything else?"

He'd definitely hit a nerve, somehow. She's gone all defensive. "No, thank you – and thank you for taking the chests, it eases my mind a lot," Desmond says, considering her. Right, young woman taking care of the house while men are away – and with Monteriggioni being still so poor and probably difficult to manage… she's probably gotten some pushback.  Not that Desmond really knows much about the pressures of this time, but… Claudia probably didn't have it as easy as it looks like.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Desmond asks.

That takes her by surprise. "I'm sorry?"

"Can I help you somehow?" Desmond asks and coughs. "To be honest, I am too tired to continue working on the church today, I used all of my energy just getting the doors open, so I am not going to continue until tomorrow. So, if there's anything – hopefully light duty – I could help you with…?"

Claudia looks a little startled. "Um," she says and then quickly re-asserts herself, squaring her shoulders and straightening her back. Her eyes stray towards the table and she hesitates for a moment before lifting her chin again. "I can manage, thank you."

"Alright," Desmond says, nodding slowly. "I guess I will be going then."

"I wish you luck and success with the work at the church," Claudia says as she turns away. "Do you know when you might be opening the doors?"

"I doubt it will be anytime soon, to be honest." He doesn't even have any idea what he'd do if he could open the church for people, properly. He has no idea how to run a sermon. "As I said, there isn't even an altar there."

"Well, do keep me informed," Claudia says and sits back down behind her desk. "Thank you."

Nodding at this dismissal, Desmond turns and heads back out, tugging his hands into the sleeves of his robe as he goes. Out of her office and in the front hall, he hesitates, glancing towards the door leading to the backyard – and from there, to Mario's office. There'd be a secret door there, leading down to the Sanctuary of the Assassin Brotherhood and all its secrets.

Altaïr's armour would probably still be there – Ezio didn't go to Venice and get the last seals until sometime in 1480s, wasn't it? Who knows if he's found even the first ones yet. Man… how tempting is that? Not that he has a way to open the way to the armour either. Or any idea what to do with it, if he actually could get his hands on it. Or what to do with _anything else_ , for that matter.

Sighing, Desmond turns towards the door and heads out.

Monteriggioni isn't as simple as he remembers it being, huh? There are things to manage and people with agendas – and money is, like it always is, an issue. Poor Claudia. Desmond doesn't really know how or where or _if_ he even fits in here, but… it's something to do until he figures things out. Or until he gets thrown out for being the fraud he is.

For now, he'd left a a bit of a mess at the church. He should probably go and clean that up.


	3. Chapter 3

The word of Brother Desmond's miracle spreads quickly. Stefano and Bettina and Valentino and the others tell it on to the market sellers and the store keepers, happily retelling the story over and over, before heading home to their families and repeating the whole thing again.

The store keepers and market sellers ask around for more details, and eventually find them too. Two small chests full of humble icons and candelabras turn into four chests full of relics, into chests full of riches, into the vision of angels standing upon the platform to hand the chests over themselves. The more extravagant rumours aren't necessarily believed, but they make the retelling more interesting, and in the midst of the embellishments, some key features stay the same until everyone believes them.

Brother Desmond prayed for strength and fortune and immediately received both, catching them in his own hands, receiving the Gift of Heaven, personally.

"He finished the prayer, a humble plead for strength and patience and good fortune," the more gifted storytellers of Monteriggioni say. "And as if God himself was listening, from above fell two chests of great fortune. And Brother Desmond feel to his knees, receiving the gifts of the Heaven with humble gratitude, and he looked above and he knew then, blessings had been laid upon the church and all those within it…"

And of course, as the rumours spread, people flock to the church to ascertain their truthfulness, and to talk to the monk there personally and ask what truly happened. What they find is not a man haloed in heavenly light or a great person with obvious blessings of God upon him – they find a barefoot monk, pulling apart the church's old and broken door frame, the wood of the doors and the boards that had once blocked it piled up neatly to the side. His face is sweaty and his hands are dirty, and he doesn't look very holy.

"Brother Desmond, what are you doing?" someone asks.

"The wood here is broken, it will have to be replaced," the monk answers, a crowbar in hand, as he runs his other hand over the seam of wood and stone. "It wouldn't do for us to replace the doors just to have them fall off their hinges because the frame is poor."

It doesn't seem like any great wisdom, only a worker pointing out the plainly obvious. Brother Desmond looks at them, waits, and when no one knows what to say to his simple proclaiment – it isn't anything godly or holy like people expected – he shrugs and goes back to work.

He is not the only one working on the church, however. Some of the older folk are there also, old Stefano inspecting a wooden scaffolding that is being built at the back of the church, and old Guido is the one building it – complaining all the while.

"We should be getting new wood, this one is all old and weathered," he says, rattling the scaffolding – which looks like it has been collected from all around Monteriggioni, from leftovers of older, abandoned building projects.

"So you feel like going out collecting wood?" Stefano demands and knocks him with his cane. "It'll do – you heard Brother Desmond. We'll have to work with what we are given."

Guido scoffs, but doesn't argue – which on its own is something of a miracle.

When the people ask them what happened to the treasures, what happened to the relics, shouldn't they have all the funds they need to repair the church, old Stefano knocks them with his cane too.

"What good will any of it do with the church in this state?" he asks. "With the roof leaking and wind howling at all corners?"

Brother Desmond comes around the church then, hearing what's being said, and he adds, "Yeah, it's a bit early, starting the decorating when the house isn't in order. How is it coming along, Stefano?"

"Look for yourself!"

He does – climbing the scaffolding with his bare hands and feet, fearless despite how it rattles. Then, standing above them, he turns his back on them to inspect the large wheel window, checking its frames and the stained glass. It's a while before he speaks.

"The window itself looks good – but the frame has to be replaced here too," Brother Desmond says and raps his knuckles against the glass. "It's good craftsmanship – but some things just don't hold up that well without proper maintenance."

Some people begin to have doubts then, others have suspicions. The more eager offer to help, throwing suggestions on how to save the beautifully made stained glass window, the others saying the frames look good for them and maybe things should be left as they are. Brother Desmond listens to them politely, taking the better suggestions and saying to the later one, "I've been told to fix the church, and that's what I'm going to do," and simply going back to work.

Later, when the people discuss the event in the marketplace, trying to make sense of the stories and decide if people had misjudged the situation, Doctor Gaspari leans in to hear their retelling of the proceedings at the church and how disappointingly normal Brother Desmond seems.

"Sounds to me," Doctor Gaspari says, "that Brother Desmond speaks much in metaphors."

After explaining what a metaphor is to the less learned listener, he says, "Now I can only speculate, I have never studied theology and there's little space for metaphors in the natural sciences, but – we all know the state of Monteriggioni, we all know where the things stand. There is much to fix here, in the people as much as in the buildings. I think what Brother Desmond is trying to say is that there isn't much point in anything, unless there is already something in place to build upon. You can't just make a house out of nothing – there must be some groundwork in place."

The explanation isn't very satisfying for many, but for others it's food for thought, and they mull it over and consider it, asking around for other things Brother Desmond had said. And one thing comes to the forefront the most.

_God would like to see us do the work ourselves._

"I have a cousin who became a Brother in the Abbey of Monte Oliveto Maggiore," Valerie says, in another meeting to consider Brother Desmond and his metaphors. "I think Brothers like Desmond aren't meant to give sermons or peach – that's the work of Pastors and Priests, proper preachers, you know – not monks. Brother Desmond isn't ordained to lead a church, even a small one. I think that is why he speaks so cryptically – he doesn't wish to step beyond the bounds of his cloth."

"Monks are only supposed to be praying and contemplating all day long, aren't they?" Orfeo muses. "And cloistered in seclusion and all that. What is he even _doing_ here?"

"Maybe he was kicked out," Candita points out. She has a beau who is a mercenary, and they all know – the mercenaries have been muttering about Brother Desmond since his arrival.

The others give her unimpressed looks.

"Or maybe he heard the calling to do something for Monteriggioni and followed it – and was given a sign from above that his decision was good," Valerie says firmly.

"The mercenaries say he's here only to trick Lady Claudia and take advantage of her and Madonna Maria –"

"In that case he's doing a poor job of it, isn't he? And he took the treasures of the church to the villa, where he could have kept them," Valerie says with a wave of her hand. "Brother Desmond had taken vows of poverty – he doesn't even wear shoes! How is someone like that supposed to trick anyone?"

"All I am saying is that we should keep an eye on him," Candita says mutinously. "It could be a trick. He could be a spy for the Pazzi – they have many of their family in the clergy, and he came here so conveniently while Ser Mario and Ser Ezio are away. I don't think we should just ignore that."

They watch the monk carefully, and the only thing they can agree on in the end is that Brother Desmond is fixing their church. He accepts help, even donations, when given them – but mostly those donations go into finding new materials for the church. He's humble and practical – and if he knows how far the story of his miracle has spread, he doesn't show it, doesn't make use of it – doesn't tell anyone what to do. And no, he doesn't preach.

But if the occasional comments and metaphors hide in them a hint of a teaching or wisdom, well – it's up to the listener whether they take it to heart or not.

* * *

 

As more people begin working on the church, the sum of Brother Desmond's variable spoken wisdoms grows.

Concerning penitence, "Prayers for repentance and forgiveness are all well and good – but actions speak louder than words."

Concerning misfortune, "Maybe it's God testing you and you conviction, maybe it's just a freak accident – whatever it is and whatever it happened doesn't really matter, or won't change things – what matters is what you do from here on out. It never hurts to ask for help, though."

Concerning trickery, "There will always be assholes, looking to take advantage of others. You just have to be watchful – watch out for your neighbours and people less savvy. Hope for the best – prepare for the worst."

Concerning God's plan for humanity and why bad things happen to good people...

Brother Desmond pauses, looking up from the doors Cristiano had donated for the church. They're barn doors and not in the best of shapes, but the monk is determined to make them work.

"I don't think God made a perfect world and runs it with a perfect plan, I don't think that was ever the point. If He did, it would be over like," he snaps his fingers, "that, from start to finish, perfect, everything in order, over and done with nothing ever stepping out of line. And obviously the world isn't like that. I think what we have is a changing world – world we can affect, and destiny that is shaped by our own actions. God made the world full of potential, nothing set in stone, and maybe He's now watching and waiting to see what we do with it."

It's definitely not what the pastor in Siena says in his sermons.

Brother Desmond looks at them and then turns to the door. "World and fate is what we make of it. It's not perfect and it's not fair, not unless people start working real hard to make it that way," he shrugs and crouches down. "Right now now we have a door to refit. Does anyone have a saw?"

Brother Desmond is a little bit heretical, it turns out, and maybe some of his beliefs go a little against what the Church teaches. But perhaps in a heathen town such as Monteriggioni, with its killers, thieves and whores… he's just what they need.

* * *

 

Brother Desmond doesn't take confessions – not officially. But if you have an… issue plaguing you, and a sin you would rather get off your chest, Brother Desmond will certainly listen – and give his opinion on it.

Ghita Brother Desmond takes into his house and offers her tea while she hesitates, hems and haws and finally broaches the subject.

"I know I shouldn't even be thinking it," she says. "It's a sin, of course, just to lie with another out of wedlock, but – but we have no money, Brother Desmond, and my sister and mother are all skin and bones. I have tried to find work, I have tried to find a way to support them, but there is nothing. I don't want my family to starve."

"Perfectly understandable, no good person would want that," the Brother says while serving her watery tea in a chipped cup. All his dishware had been donated second hand, most of it broken. He handles it like it's precious.

"It's not an easy life though," Brother Desmond says as he sits down. "And I'm sorry that it's the only opportunity you have. I guess you've tried every other option?"

She sighs and nods. "The barracks already have enough washers, and the Auditore already have more servants than they can reasonably support. I tried to find work on the farms, but every possible position is filled twice over. There's nothing."

"And I suppose leaving isn't an option?" Brother Desmond asks.

Ghita sighs and looks down. "I thought of it, but… here we can live in our own house free of charge, elsewhere it wouldn't be so," she says. "And my mother cannot travel, besides."

The monk sighs, sympathetic. "It's sad, the state of the town," he says looking down to his teacup. "So few businesses."

Ghita agrees. "The old folk say there used to be a tailor that hired many women here, but it has been a long time since. Now there isn't even a tavern where I might serve tables. There is nothing," she says. "The brothel is the only way for a woman to earn money here. And I don't think I would mind the work, I hear it pays well. I just… I don't want to go to Hell…"

"I see," he says. "Well. I don't know if the act itself is so sinful – giving pleasure and joy to others, I think that's only a good thing."

"What – really?" Ghita asks with disbelief.

He smiles. "Not that the Church necessarily agrees – but there are different schools of thought. There's even a convent in Venice, where the Sisters are also courtesans." He lifts his tea and hums. "Feeling happiness, joy, pleasure – they're all good things, I think. And being able to give them to others, helping others feel good – maybe that's even greater."

"The pastor in Siena says that unchecked pleasure is hedonism – that lust is a mortal sin," Ghita says tentatively.

"If you sate your lust at the cost of other people's pain, yeah," Brother Desmond agrees. "Then it definitely is. But if you give pleasure willingly – that's more akin to charity, isn't it? Or at the very least, an equal transaction, where both benefit."

Ghita frowns, thoughtful.

"And if you're doing it to support our family out of necessity, I think that's okay," Desmond says. "I don't think you have anything to worry about regarding your soul – to me it looks to be in a pretty good shape."

"You truly think so?"

"Mm-hmm," he agrees. "And if someone has an issue with it… honestly, it sounds like _their problem_ to me."

* * *

 

Of course not everyone is happy with the proceedings.

For years Monteriggioni had been favouring her mercenaries, who had enjoyed a free, unchecked reign over the aging fortress. Ser Mario was a very warrior like Condottiero, and under his reign almost all of the town's funding had been channeled into military, into paying the salaries and houses of the mercenaries, into keeping their families in comfort. Anyone with any business sense could see it was a major reason as to why the fortress had fallen so deeply into poverty and ruin – traveling and spending so much time away from Monteriggioni, the mercenaries spent their money elsewhere too, and as the businesses of the town fell under hard time, what little money ever flowed into the town stalled – and what money it made all flowed out.

"And thank God for Ser Ezio, and may the Saints and all of Heaven's Angels protect him," Monteriggioni's sole banker, Lamberto, proclaims. "For he has a sense of finance and economy! I pray every day for his long and successful life."

Not that anyone hated Mario, it was quite the opposite. But they all knew things had begun changing when the younger generation of Auditore had moved in – and when Ser Ezio came back from Florence with a hefty pick of money and then _did not_ pour it into the military… that's when they knew things would be truly different.

The establishment of the Fiore Mortale hasn't been popular among the more religious and pious, but no one could deny – it kept money in Monteriggioni, giving the mercenaries something to spend their pay on. It even brought some fortune into the fortress from outside of it, as the unattached men of the countryside came in search of entertainment. It wasn't anywhere near enough to helping Monteriggioni back to its former glory, but it's was a big step in the right – if less than pious – direction.

And though the mercenaries certainly weren't against the brothel – making most of her clientele – they too could sense the changing winds. There were great many other establishments to be renovated too, great many directions the town's money could flow – and with each one, less money would flow their way.

And in any town a church would demand its share, if not in form of taxes, then in donations. And the fact that Lady Claudia had found a monk to begin the renovations and that the said monk was actually doing the work – before the mercenary barracks were given funds to renovate…

"Having a church won't help anyone if the Pazzi attack," they start telling people. "Words of some monk won't save you from a single inch of sharpened steel."

They can't sabotage the church without invoking the ire of all the people who are now working on repairing her windows and roof, who gather there daily to discuss matters of Earth and Heaven with Brother Desmond. So the mercenaries try to convince people not to go, not to waste their time, not to bother.

"What you need in life is a good blade and guts to use it," they say. "In a fight, which one of us will do for good, me or _him_?"

There's mean-spirited gossip around in market place, there are mutters, insults thrown Brother Desmond's way, snide remarks of how he's not even a proper preacher, how he was likely thrown out of his monastery, how he was tricking everyone. When none of it actually did anything to stall the rebuilding of the church, and the Brother didn't seem to care, the bolder mercenaries attempted to intimidate the Brother more… physically.

Rocco had been living in Monteriggioni for five years, and he had gotten used to how things were run – and he didn't like that his wife was now speaking of Brother Desmond's teachings.

"Who do you think you are, changing the way things are done here," he says, cornering the thin Brother at the market. "Thinking you're so much better than us, because you've taken oaths. You're nothing but a dirty vagabond, tricking honest folk, trying to steal their money –"

He gives the Brother a push, intending to knock him back into a wall, give him a scare, maybe a bruise or two, and definitely something to think about.

What he gets is the Brother ducking under his clumsy shove, a hand with iron hard grip catching him by the wrist, another hand suddenly pressing into his shoulder from the back – and then it's him shoved into the wall.

"Hey – what the –?!"

Brother Desmond twists and Rocco cries out, loud enough to catch everyone's attention.

"Three degrees," the monk says calmly. "That's how much I need to turn your arm to dislocate your shoulder."

It's the tone, not the threat, that makes the mercenary go pale and makes all those watching stay back, suddenly wary in a way they don't fully understand. Rocco goes completely still, holding his breath.

Brother Desmond holds him there for a moment longer, the heel of his hand pressing hard on the back of Rocco's shoulder, the moment suspended on the knife's edge of danger.

Then, the message delivered and received, the monk simply lets go, gathers his meagre purchases from the blacksmith and leaves.

It's not the last time things become physical between the monk and the mercenaries, nor the end of the mercenaries' attempts to sabotage the church's rebuilding – but it's a prelude to how the rest of their attempts would go.

For all his casual ways and calm manner, it turns out Brother Desmond fits Monteriggioni better than anyone expected.

* * *

 

On Sundays a retinue of people leaves Monteriggioni for Siena. Even in good weather and with well rested horses pulling their carts, it's a good two hours to reach the city, where they are expected and welcomed with the usual cheer – none.

"I'm afraid Monteriggioni's reputation precedes us," Stefano harrumphs to Brother Desmond, who is sitting beside him. "One of these days they'll bar us entry and then where will we be?"

"Is the town's reputation that bad?" the monk asks quietly.

"Monteriggioni used to be part of the Republic of Siena," Stefano explains. "No one knows what Renato did to make it neural – that is, Ser Renato Auditore, Ser Mario's grandfather. Something he did, some deal or some such, made Siena cut ties, and since then Monteriggioni had been more of a border marker between Florence and Siena rather than part of either. Now Ser Ezio is rubbing elbows with the Medici, and it makes things that much more awkward."

"And I suppose Florence is too far away to visit for Mass," Brother Desmond says.

"Hrmph. Not that they would let us in even if we did," Stefano mutters.

They are followed by soldiers of Siena all the way to the Basilica of San Francesco, which with as much traffic as Siena gets on Sundays is rather much. Brother Desmond doesn't seem too bothered by it, but he keeps his head down, hood pulled up as he follows the people of Monteriggioni inside, one by one washing their hands at the stoup. They then shuffle near the very back, clustered together while the locals head to the front, some of them sending narrowed, haughty looks.

Brother Desmond, a little surprisingly, stays with them, and when other monks from other orders enter, he bows his head and looks away. Stefano considers the reaction, makes a mental note of it and then ignores it as none of his business, for now.

And then Mass begins as the choir beings the chant and the priests make their entrance, moving through cathedral and to the altar in slow, ceremonious procession, where the priest kisses the altar.

Stefano had never studied much of anything and cannot understand Latin beyond the common prayers – but the first words of the Mass, "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen," still fill him with a sense of tremendous understanding and peace. Sighing, Stefano bows his head, makes the sign of the cross, and forgets Brother Desmond for the rest of the Mass.

He doesn't remember him until much later, after the Mass is over, the communion rites have closed and the priest has given them dismissal. As the recession takes place and the priests and altar boys retreat, Stefano looks around and Brother Desmond isn't there. Perhaps he'd joined the monks after the Eucharist.

They meet again when the people of Monteriggioni make their way back to their carts, to begin the journey home. Stefano is starting to feel a little concerned for the Brother – he doesn't know that the soldiers of Siena would have them leave immediately – and when he turns, there he is again, as if he'd never been lost.

Stefano hesitates, looking at him. Brother Desmond looks... concerned.

"It's something the matter?"

"No, not at all," Brother Desmond says quickly. "I suppose we will be leaving now?"

"Yes, as soon as we can – that tends to be how it goes."

Brother Desmond is quiet as they depart Siena, lost in thought. Even when the usual discussion begins and everyone else talks of the Mass, the monk says quiet, looking at the countryside, lost in thought.

Stefano feels a slightest suspicion. There had been rumours of Brother Desmond being a spy, and he had all but disappeared in the middle of the Mass… Stefano likes the young monk, he likes the way he carries himself and how he thinks of things – Brother Desmond is easy and even enjoyable to talk to, he doesn't try to expound his faith, but doesn't roll over either. He believes what he believes, and if that's slightly heretical, then so it is. He never apologises for it – Stefano can respect that.

But Monteriggioni is a town of Assassins, and they have many enemies – and Stefano knows where his loyalties lie.

"How did you enjoy the Mass?" Stefano asks Brother Desmond. "You would actually know what the priest talked about."

"Actually, I have no idea," Brother Desmond admits.

"I'm sorry?"

"Yeah, I couldn't understand more than a few words of it," the monk admits with a sigh. "Turns out I don't know Latin as well as I hoped to."

Stefano stares at him, baffled. The young man makes it sound like it's a letdown – like he wasn't certain, but hoped he did, and then… was disappointed? But… "But you're a monk?" Stefano says.

"I keep telling people I am not a very good one," Desmond says and runs a hand over his short hair, looking embarrassed.

"Did – did you forget, or…?"

Desmond sighs. "Can't forget what you never fully learned, I guess," he murmurs and coughs. "It's just as well that I'm not a priest, huh? I could never run a Mass like this."

Stefano honestly doesn't know what to say to that. It leaves a strange atmosphere for the rest of the journey, with the word spreading – with Stefano's suspicions growing. When they make it back he would need to speak with Lady Claudia, tell her what he'd learned, what he suspected. As much as he likes this young monk… Monteriggioni must come first.

"Oh, look!" Bettina calls from ahead as they finally come closer to the fortress. "Look at the horses!"

Horses?

Everyone cranes their necks to see, and then Stefano spots them in the pasture by the stables, two fine looking horses being tended to proudly by the usually lazy stable boys. Neither of animals looks familiar, but they look valuable, and their saddles are fine… which means they either belong to visitors, or…

Beside Stefano, Brother Desmond goes very still.

"Ser Ezio is home!"


	4. Chapter 4

Ezio loosens the clasps of his boots before easing them off his feet, one after the other. It's been… some time since he dared to take them off, and though he's a little better used to the roughness of his life, the feel of his feet coming free of their several days worth of confinement is nearly euphoric. For all the weight of his armours and weapons, somehow it is always his boots that are the sweetest to take off.

Tonight he'd have bath, he'd have wine, he'd have food he did not need to steal, it might even be warm… and after it all, he would have rest on the bed with clean sheets, soft mattress, pillows. Once commonplace things are now almost luxuries, and ones he could no longer take granted. Especially not after several days – weeks, months, soon it will be years – of catching stolen moments of sleep on haylofts and people's attics, unbeknownst to their owners.

"Well?" Claudia says impatiently. "You come with news, do you not? You rode here on stolen horses with your head held high, you must have news."

Ezio glances at her, standing firm by the window, her back to it – something he no longer dares to do. She keeps growing in his absence – the steel in her voice isn't new, nor is the impatience, but the _understanding_ … Claudia is now nineteen, and likely as tall as she will ever grow to be – but is still growing, nonetheless. They both are.

The boot falls, and Ezio leans back with a sigh, collapsing against the backrest of the couch, letting his arms hang over it. He feels wrung out, a piece of cloth washed and rinsed so many times that his seams have worn thin. He would have to relive it all for Uncle Mario, who is not yet there – and Lorenzo de Medici would also need to learn what had occurred. Things had came to head… very fast, in the last few days.

"The Pazzi are dead," Ezio says.

Claudia gives away her shock with a sharp inhale and slight shift of her weight, moving from side to side, as if unsure whether to come to him or back away further. Ezio looks at her and then runs a hand over his hair. "Jacopo de Pazzi died not two nights ago in Antico Teatro Romano – ruins of a Roman theatre near San Gimignano."

"But there were others left – others in the conspiracy," Claudia says quietly.

"Yes – they too are dead," Ezio says and runs his hand down to his neck – it feels grimy, after so many days in the hood. "Bernardo Baronchelli, Stefano da Bagnone, Francesco Salviati and Brother Antonio Maffei. All dead now," except for the Spaniard.

Claudia's lips part, and then press firmly together, thinning. "How?" she demands. "Tell me everything. I need to know."

Ezio would rather not – but Claudia would never settle for anything less but the details. Whether she'd find any more solace in them than he had… who knows.

"Baronchelli and Maffei both hid in San Gimignano, where I found them. Bagnone took refuge in an abbey, for all the good it did for him, and Archbishop Salviati hid within his own villa." Ezio says and lowers his hand. "Baronchelli was to be imprisoned at the behest of Lorenzo de Medici, but he escaped and hid. They all did. In San Gimignano they had many men, and could cover behind them – but it was not enough to save them…"

Claudia listens to every word with an old, familiar bloodthirst – once aimed at cheating betrotheds and deceiving friends, finding satisfaction in petty revenge. Now, she too has a thirst for blood, if not means to spill it herself – and the telling seems to satisfy her, somewhat.

"From them I learned where I might find Jacopo de Pazzi – at a meeting between conspirators, to take place at the ruins," Ezio says and looks around. There, by the door, a carafe of wine has been laid out. Standing up, he goes to it and pours. "He was stabbed by his co-conspirators for his failures. Once they had escaped, I put him out of his misery."

Claudia says nothing for a long time, breathing in and out while Ezio pours the wine. "The Pazzi are dead," she says finally, and her voice is quiet.

"Yes," Ezio agrees. Not all of them, he had not gone and systematically slaughtered their families, and would not, no matter who demanded it. But those responsible for the deaths of his father and brothers… those Pazzi were dead. Vieri, Francesco, Jacopo, and those who worked with them or for them. Starting with Uberto and ending with Jacopo, they are all finally dead.

Any moment now, Ezio would feel at peace.

Sitting back down with a sigh, Ezio lifts the glass and drinks, looking to Claudia. "The Spaniard still lives," he says. "And there is another conspiracy at works, it seems, this one in Venice." Something which Uncle Mario would no doubt demand they involve themselves with. "But the Pazzi are dead by Auditore hand."

This makes Claudia move, look at him, hesitate. She wavers for a moment, before walking over to the table with the wine carafe. She grabs the whole thing by the neck before joining him on the couch, scrunching her nose at the stink of him, but saying nothing.

She lifts the carafe, holding it tilted towards him. Ezio considers it, and her pinched expression – then he clinks his glass against it. They drink – he with pretence of civility from a glass, and her without any, straight from the pitcher.

It's not quite the celebration either of them imagined. Well, perhaps once Uncle caught up with them, there would be a party and they'd drink to their dead and their victims. Perhaps.

"How have things been in here?" Ezio says. "The mercenaries say it has been quiet. No trouble, I hope?"

"Oh, none, we've not yet become notable enough to be a target for trouble," Claudia sighs. "Nothing yet for anyone to take here, and with you and Uncle keeping the Pazzi's men busy in San Gimignano, none came here. It has been quiet – the most drama we've had has been with the church."

"The Church?" Ezio asks, immediately wary. Many of the Pazzi conspirators held high standings in the Church – Francesco Salviati was an Archbishop, and if the Spaniard is who they suspect he is, he might very well have the Pope's ear. "What has been happening?"

"Oh, no, not the entirety of the Church, brother, we haven't brought the wrath of the Vatican down upon us," Claudia snorts. "I meant our local church. We have begun slowly rebuilding it."

"Oh," Ezio says and relaxes a little. "I see. The Architect estimated it would take several hundred florin, at the very least. Where did you get the money?"

"We didn't," Claudia says and drinks from the carafe. "It has been a work of goodwill, more than anything – locals are pitching in with donations and free work. It's slow going, but they're repairing the roof now, and at this rate it shouldn't take more than a month at most, before it is ready for services again."

"That is… good to hear," Ezio says, though he cannot say he cares one way or the other. Lately his interest in churches and religion, never in surplus, has been diminishing somewhat. Men of God had been proving themselves to be very earthly indeed.

The matters of Monteriggioni seem… absurdly small, now, having seen and heard and killed so many men plotting the conquest of cities and republics. Florence, San Gimignano, now Venice… in face of such ambition, the rebuilding of a little town church seems rather insignificant.

"And where do you suppose to get a priest to run the damn thing?" Ezio asks, lifting his wine glass. "We've been excommunicated, if you recall." As if such things even _matter_ anymore.

"I suppose I will not. We have someone already, though – not a priest, mind you, but a Brother," Claudia says. "Brother Desmond – he's been leading the renovation."

Ezio sips the wine, casting her a glance. She meets it without wariness – without any marked emotion. Whoever this Brother Desmond is, she has little suspicions or doubts about him. And yet, "We are some ways removed from any convents, monasteries or abbeys," Ezio comments. "What is a monk doing here?"

"I think he too is excommunicated," Claudia admits. "At the very least, he was thrown out – he has some… unorthodox beliefs. But the people like him, and he gives spiritual advice freely and happily. And he has yet to condemn anyone, not the courtesans, not the bastards, not even the mercenaries, and they _hate_ him."

"They hate him," Ezio repeats flatly, considering her. "And this is not something to be concerned of?"

"Uncle Mario promised the town a proper garrison," Claudia comments and leans back, carafe still in hand. "But the people are rebuilding the church instead. No money might have been involved, yet, but it's still progress which was promised elsewhere. Now, they are waiting to see which side of the hill the money might flow to next. You came back with some, didn't you?"

"Hm," Ezio answers and drinks again, not answering in a while, looking away. He had come back with some – and he is not yet eager to start distributing it. Things are changing, soon, and there is much to consider.

The silence stretches and Claudia looks at him, wary. "Did something happen?"

 _In the span of four days, I killed five very powerful men,_ Ezio thinks. _And now I am not sure if it was enough to change anything._

He shakes his head. "I'm only tired from travel," he says. "Tell me, how is Mother?" that, if nothing else, should change the subject.

Claudia's eyes flash and she turns her gaze away, at the carafe. "She's been poorly," she says. "The anniversary was not a week ago, you know. She is always worse during this time."

… right. The anniversary. Ezio had very… very carefully not made a note of it, not this year, or the year before. Honestly, he would have been happier to not be reminded of it, but he'd asked. And now he doesn't know what to say.

He usually arranges it so he is not among people, during this time of the year.

"You will go see her," Claudia says. It's not a question. "You have something for her, I hope?"

"Yes," Ezio sighs and drains the wine. "I climbed every roof of San Gimignano for them – made some birds very irate in the meanwhile."

"Hmph," Claudia answers, mix of amused and irritated. When Ezio holds out his glass towards her, she gives it a sideways look before pouring a couple of finger's worth into it from her carafe. "Did Petruccio ever say what he collected them for?"

"Not to me," Ezio admits, whirling the wine. "Only promised to tell me, in time."

"I wonder if mother knows."

Ezio doesn't answer for a while, eying the wine, the whirl of near-blood red. A terribly familiar colour these days. "Has she spoken at all?" he asks quietly.

"Not a word. It's been three years now," Claudia says. "Honestly, I'm not sure I remember what she even sounded like."

Ezio cannot think what to say to that, so he doesn't – drinking instead, until the wine begins to warm him again. "I will go see her – after a bath," he says. "Or is there anything I need to know right now?"

Claudia considers him and then sets the carafe, now half empty, down. "Nothing that can't wait," she says.  "Enjoy your bath, brother – you need it dearly."

"Such kind words, sister," he says and stands up. "I should like to see you smelling any better, after several days of hiding in piles of hay."

"Hay, was it – not manure?" Claudia says and hums. "I will need to make a note not to buy hay from the farmers of San Gimignano, then. I expect it to be past spoiled." She looks at him and then stands up as well. "Welcome home, Ezio," she says and hugs him.

"It's good to be back," he says and holds her tight for a moment.

She sniffs and then shoves at him. "Mother of God, you do stink – go wash, please."

Yes, it's good to be home.

* * *

 

Maria does not see him, does not hear him.

"I have done what I set out to do, Mother," Ezio says, crouching beside her on the floor where she is kneeling by her bed, caught once more in a silent prayer. "Vieri, Francesco and Jacopo are all dead now. As are their conspirators. Everyone who was responsible for the death of Father, of Federico and Petruccio, they are all dead. I have avenged our family."

No reaction whatsoever - she doesn't even open her eyes.

"Of course, the Spaniard got away," Ezio says. "Whatever his plan is, whatever he hopes to gain – he was the instigator of the conspiracy only, it was the Pazzi and their co-conspirators, their ambition and arrogance, that carried it through. Already the Spaniard has turned his eyes elsewhere."

Nothing – he can't even hear her breathing, she's so quiet.

Ezio kneels down beside her, now in clean breeches and hose, his shirt still a little damp at the shoulders, where water drips from his hair. His hands on his knees, he looks around her room. It is the finest room in the villa, decorated with the best they have – the best furniture, the finest carpets, curtains, bedspreads. Everything nice they had, they had funnelled into her room, to surround her with their best, and it is not enough to make her notice. What is she praying to, here? Sometimes she goes on for months, only ceasing to eat and sleep…

Sometimes Ezio wonders if she would have been happier in a nunnery. He would never do it, subject her to such harsh and strict life, no matter how well her broken spirit might be suited for the life of prayer. Nor could he bear to part from her, bear to part Claudia from her. There is so little of their family left, now. And yet… perhaps she would be more comfortable, surrounded by those dedicated to prayer and prayer alone.

"I expect to be done," Ezio murmurs. "Any moment now, I expect to find the void inside me filled, and it refuses to do so. I have killed all those responsible, all but the Spaniard, and he cares not for what we do now. His ambition has turned elsewhere, to Venice. I have nothing to do with Venice, no one there I care for, it has nothing to do with our losses, our vengeance. I should be done – why then…"

He trails away and bows his head. Maria does not react.

Ezio sighs and stands up. "I brought you some more feathers," he says. "I hope you like them, Mother. I hope you know what to do with them."

Maria remains silent, and eventually, defeated, Ezio slips out. He'd meant to go to his room and rest, carried away by the luxury of a feather mattress, but… seeing her leaves him restless.

So he grabs his weapons belt, pulls on a vest, and sets out to see the town instead, to see how it might have developed and changed in his absence – if nothing else, the changes to the church might be of interest, considering the work that had apparently been done to it.

"Welcome back, Ser Ezio," the townspeople who are out and about greet him, and, "I hope your travels have gone well, Ser Ezio," and, "It's good to have you back, Messere Ezio." Some of the greetings are more eager than others, but mostly everyone says something, and no one looks surprised – or new. It doesn't seem like the town has gained any new citizens in his absence – young or otherwise.

The mercenaries who are patrolling the town stop to talk to him, asking of his travels and accomplishments, asking him how Mario's efforts in San Gimignano are going. "I expect he and the men will be back before this week is over," Ezio says. "I suspect our fight in those regions is over now."

Of course there might be other causes left to fight, but with the Pazzi conspirators routed from the area, there is little of interest there for their family – or for the Assassins. It all depended on whoever took charge of those regions, of course – and whether they proved to be a friend, or a foe.

"And what of here and now, Ser Ezio?" the mercenaries ask. "If the fight is over, what is to happen to Monteriggioni?"

"Is the garrison still going to be rebuilt?" another mercenary demands – Raffaele, a much younger man, who is quickly shushed into silence by his elders.

Honestly, Ezio would rather see about opening a few stores in the fortress if he could. A permanent food market would be of great value, as well as a tailor, and a cobbler… The garrison, as important as it is, is likely to be a constant drain of their funds, not a source of income. And it is income they need more than further expenses. "We shall see," Ezio says. "For now let us wait for Mario to return, and see what news he might bring." As the Mentor of the Brotherhood, he likely had plans already.

The mercenaries don't look happy about it, but Ezio is not in the mood to argue or hear complaints. "We will speak of it later," he promises. "Now I am going to inspect the fortress. Is there anything to report?"

There is some elbowing among the mercenaries, some pointed looks, until one of them – Ciro, who has been serving as a trainer – speaks. "The monk, Ser Ezio," he says grimly. "You know of him? He arrived not fortnight ago, and he's been… rousing the population."

"Rousing?" Ezio repeats, turning to him. "From what I hear, he's been rebuilding the church."

"He's doing that, yes, but he's also talking to the people, sir. Putting… thoughts to their heads," Ciro says. "And I ain't no priest, but some of those thoughts aren't strictly speaking Christian."

"How do you mean?"

Ciro opens his mouth and then the stops, looking uncertain. "Well, I'm no learned man," he says. "But it's a lot of nonsense about – about God not having a plan, not building the world perfect and what ain't a sin – the way he goes about, most of _anything_ ain't a sin, really, and, um…"

"He told them whores that whoring isn't a sin," Raffaele says, huffing. "That sleeping around, fucking men – fucking women is all right, _so as long as no one is hurt_ ," he says the last part mockingly, obviously quoting. "It's all a lot of nonsense. Everyone knows lust is a mortal sin and anyone who indulges in it is going to hell!"

Ezio blinks, while around them, the elder – better experienced – mercenaries go curiously quiet, throwing him some nervous looks. Raffaele looks at the others, obviously expecting agreement and validation to his words, but no one meets his eyes – nor Ezio's, for that matter.

"He is young, sir," another mercenary, Ercole, says quickly, while taking Raffaele into a headlock to keep him from saying anything more. "He doesn't know who he's working for."

"So I see," Ezio says, a little amused. "Perhaps you should educate him. Have you other complaints about the monk, aside from… his opinions on what isn't a sin?"

They look uneasy. "Um, he is hiding things, Ser Ezio, that much everyone knows," Ciro says then. "And – he knows how to fight."

It's said with a tone of embarrassment, and Ezio arches a brow at it. "Which I assume you know from experience?" he asks, and the mercenary coughs, awkward. "I see. Well, I'll certainly keep it in mind. Now, if you excuse me… I'm going to go and enjoy a walk."

The mercenaries part and let him pass – he can hear them gathering together to murmur and gossip, and shakes his head to the few words he hears, amused. Young Raffaele is given an earful about how things are, it sounds like – likely he wouldn't be making any judgements about lust, in the future.

He should swing by the Fiore Mortale, once he is done with his inspections. Just to… see how things were going.

First, however, he heads for the much-gossiped-about church. At a distance it doesn't look that much different at first – honestly, it looks almost worse off. The roof has been taken nearly apart, with the wood under the roof tiles bare to the sky, with parts of it pulled off. When he gets closer, he can see that in parts, the old wood has already been replaced by newer planks – newer in the sense that they aren't completely silver and grey with age. They don't look precisely _new_ though.

Claudia had said the church was being rebuild on charity and donations. Apparently, the wood was part of it. So were the doors – the planks had been removed and the doors replaced. Judging by the shape of them, they'd been much bigger before being cut into shape – barn doors? It looks like the windows are in the works of being fixed too – few of them are missing, and one window frame has been replaced with newer wood.

Ezio walks around the church, taking in the signs of work, the scaffolding, the ropes. It's nothing like the construction site around Fiore Mortale had been, but it's obvious that people work here daily.

"Ah, Ser Ezio, there you are. Welcome back home," a female voice speaks behind him, and Ezio turns. It's Carlotta, fine as always in her carmine dress. "I figured you'd come here."

"You did?" Ezio asks with some disbelief. "What has happened to my reputation here? Surely I'm more likely to visit your house than a house of God."

"My house isn't quite as controversial, amusingly enough," she says, looking at the church. "If you are looking for Brother Desmond, he is likely still travelling. He and the congregation here have gone to Siena, for the Mass."

"Oh, is it Sunday?" Ezio asks. He'd completely lost the track of days. "I see. I assume you have something to tell me of him?" As much as Monteriggioni has or needs an information network, Carlotta is its manager.

"Hm," she agrees, casting him a look. "Paola would have me test you on this – see what you can see and then correlate what we have found, see how much you have learned. You are not my student, though, Ezio – so would you have me tell you, or would you rather see for yourself?"

"There is something to be seen, then," Ezio says, interested.

"Yes. Nothing terribly bad," Carlotta says with a pretty, tempting smile. "If there was, I would have taken it to Claudia post haste, but it didn't seem pertinent. The man performs well for the task she intended for him."

Well, isn't that curious. "Seems like this monk has the whole town talking," Ezio comments. "Claudia, the mercenaries, now you? What do your ladies say?"

"Oh, they don't – they only _swoon_ ," Carlotta chuckles. "Should we expect to see you tonight?"

Ezio considers it and then smiles. He's tired but... never too tired. "I think you very well might," he purrs.

"We'll be looking forward to it," Carlotta says with a warm smile and turns away.

"You didn't tell me what you know of this monk," Ezio calls after her.

"You didn't ask, dear."

Nor does he ask now, as she walks away. This had become a mystery, and he's developed an appetite for those of late. Maybe this one would even be the one without death and murder at the end of it – wouldn't that be something?

Ezio considers the church with interest and then tilts his head. For all the work they have already put in, the bell tower in the front has not been altered. The bell is still without a pull rope, it looks like. Likely they hadn't been able to afford a good and durable rope, if the whole renovation project is done with as tight a budget as it seems.

Well… he's reasonably well in pocket, and not all of it would go to the town's general funds. It looks like many have donated to the church. He might as well do the same.

* * *

 

Finding a good long rope in Monteriggioni turns out to be a bit of a problem – of course there is no roper in the town, and though the blacksmith and the apothecary both have learned to carry more broad spectrum of goods, neither of them have ropes on sale. Ezio ends up having to rummage through his own room, with a vague memory of having some rope there. It takes the application of his Gift and more patience than he expected to find the damn thing under some tarps and unused canvases.

If nothing else, it's a distraction from his earlier, darker thoughts. He carries the distraction back to the church, where he scales the side of the church to tackle the bell tower – which ends up being its own distraction altogether. The bell is bronze, and as such has weathered the time and neglect well – the mechanisms it hangs upon, not so much. The space under the bell is also taken over by what looks like several generations of bird nests.

Ezio loses himself so much in the work of figuring out how to attach the bell rope and where it actually hangs in the church itself, that he almost misses the return of the congregation – only rousing from the strangely calming task of clearing the bell tower when his Gift alerts him that he is being watched.

There are people approaching the church, all in their Sunday best.

"Ser Ezio!" one of them calls, "Welcome back!"

"Welcome home, Ser Ezio!"

"What are you doing up there, sir?"

Ezio, a little embarrassed about having been caught at the task he meant to do and them move on with no one being the wiser, crouches down on the edge of the roof. "It didn't look like the bell tower had been fixed yet, so I thought I'd make my contribution here," he says and looks at the thing. For such a small structure it is being quite the bother. "Only I can't figure out where the bell rope is supposed to hang."

The people below begin shouting suggestions and encouragements, "Surely we can figure that out, Ser Ezio, you don't have to," And "There should be some sort of channel that runs through the tower," and "Maybe it just hung beside the door, on the outside?"

While they call to him, Ezio looks over them, searching for the much rumoured monk. There – in the back, there is a man fully cloaked, his face hidden under a hood and his features obscured. He is turning away, hesitating - it looks as though he isn't sure whether to leave or stay.

Narrowing his eyes, Ezio swings himself down from the church roof, the people making way as he lands on the steps of the church. With the crowd and the fountain between them, there is no way to make casual way towards the man, so Ezio doesn't even bother – walking past people parting before him. The monk, to his credit, doesn't run – though it looks like he almost wants to, holding his hand over his mouth, his face turned away, shadowed…

The habit looks frayed, the hem ragged - under the shreds of that dirty hem, the man's feet are bare, looking dirty and vulnerable against the stones of the street. It looks like he has not worn shoes in many days, maybe weeks. He looks poor, his wrists thin.

And yet, he has caused quite the stir. Very, very curious. And Carlotta had implied there was something to be seen here, too. Better not let him flee, then.

"You must be Brother Desmond," Ezio says firmly as he comes closer, catching him with words before the man can make his mind on his escape. The monk turns towards him, and Ezio looks at him with his Gift – his steps slowing, stalling.

No wonder the ladies of Fiore Mortale swoon – the man looks like something out of Leonardo's painting, his face thin, but noble and undeniably handsome. His eyes are striking, glimmering ambers in shadow, lighting up his whole face, made all the more striking by the stubble on his chin and upper lip. His lips look like they belong to a lovingly made statue.

And he is utterly _swathed_ in symbols of chastity. Monk's habit, short shorn hair curling at his temples. The robes he wears are overly large and abundant in fabric, it's bundled at the waist by a knotted white rope – and beside the ends of the rope hangs a rosary, gleaming in the sunlight.

"I have heard much about you," Ezio says, clearing his throat. The monk is a good head's worth taller than him.

"You… have?" the monk asks, surprised. Haloed in golden glow of importance, he looks poor, humble, beautiful - and _forbidden_.

Ezio doesn't think he's ever seen anything so tempting in his life.


	5. Chapter 5

Desmond doesn't know what to do with himself. He isn't sure there is anything he actually can do, even if he knew what – but it feels like he should do something.

Ezio is right _there_. And he's so _young_.

Desmond had known, sort of theoretically, that he would be. Claudia is what, nineteen now? Which makes Ezio twenty one at most. Knowing the numbers and being roughly able to estimate the time where everything takes place, that's one thing – reality is different.

Reality is the lack of beard on Ezio's cheeks, how smooth his face looks. It's the easy way he smiles and talks with people, how openly he turns to them, how widely he gestures, how casually he talks. His voice is lighter, his eyes bright, and he's just young. He doesn't have the grim gravitas he gained later on, his voice isn't as low or rough, his eyes aren't as hard, and he's just so… so _soft_ -looking, with his loosely tied hair and a friendly way he acts. Even to a complete stranger, like Desmond.

"The work you have done here is remarkable," Ezio says, looking at the church and freely flattering the people hovering around them – even the ones who haven't actually done anything for the church. "I can tell you didn't have much in a way of resources."

"We've been managing," Desmond says, because Ezio looks like he expects an answer. "The people have been donating things, helping out. Honestly, they're doing most of the work."

"It was nothing much, really," Bettina says. "And truly,  without Brother Desmond nothing would get done at all."

"Well, tell me about it. Tell me, what have you done?" Ezio says, smiling and eager. "Tell me everything."

Desmond lingers back as much as he can, increasingly awkward as this open young Ezio interacts with the people, asking them what work has gone into which aspect of the church, what has been done. He looks like a memory, like a weird, wistful apparition, and it feels almost like if… if Desmond got too close, it would break.

There's a much darker, much grimmer Ezio lingering somewhere being Desmond's eyes, with all the years and disappointments and lack of progress pressing down on him – Ezio who was less happy and less open and more withdrawn, quiet. Young Ezio isn't even wearing Assassin's robes right now – just hose and breeches and a shirt with dark red vest thrown over it. He looks so _colourful_ , somehow. Lively.

In Desmond's last memory of Ezio, he wore dark blues and greys, his colours as muted as his mannerisms.

"You found treasures?" Ezio asks, and Desmond looks up. Before he can answer, another does it for him.

"They came down as a Gift from Heavens! We had only just opened the church, and Brother Desmond led us in prayer for strength and patience and good fortune, when they came down upon us, as if pushed towards us by Angels of Heaven!"

Ezio looks suitably amazed – though the glance he sends Desmond's way is full of thoughtful suspicion. "Indeed?" he says.

"The were hidden on a platform in the rafters, just above the door," Desmond says. "It took considerable effort to get the doors open, and it probably loosened the platform's supports – they gave way under the weight of the chests."

"Full of treasure, were they?"

"Icons, candelabras, books, paintings," Desmond says, shaking his head. "Stuff that was on display in the church, probably."

Ezio hums, resting a hand at his hip. "And where are these treasures now? The church looks still empty."

"I gave them to Lady Claudia's keeping," Desmond says and tries not to stare too much.

Ezio isn't quite as wide at the chest as he became later, when he started wearing heavier armour and begun to really bulk up – he's still sort of slim, fit rather than buff. Another thing that makes him look younger. How open his shirt front is doesn't really help there – and he's still wearing the necklace too, like a beacon to draw eyes to his chest. It's probably intentional.

Desmond coughs and looks up. "It seemed safer, that way," he adds. "The church didn't even have a proper door then. They wouldn't have been safe here."

Ezio looks at him and then nods, approving. "They will be safe at the villa, Claudia will see to it," he promises, looking him up and down. "You are working on the roof now, I see?"

"Yes, a farmer in the countryside donated some roof tiles for the church – he's repairing his own roof and is going to replace most of the tiles," Desmond explains. "And he gave the old ones to us for free."

"That's very kind of him," Ezio says, thoughtful, still watching him.

"I thought so, yes," Desmond murmurs awkwardly, wondering what Ezio sees in him. Is he using Eagle Vision? Wonder how Desmond shows under it. Can Ezio see how utterly fucked he is? How much of a liar he is and how bad at it at that? Especially now, with the visit to Siena and the whole thing with Mass, seriously…

"Do you need help with the roof work?" Ezio asks, moving closer and smiling. "I'm not much of a builder, I admit, but I can scale rooftops with ease."

Yeah, no kidding.

"I'm sure I could be of some service," Ezio offers, almost suggestive, still smiling at him.

Desmond smothers the urge to tug at his hood to hide under it – it feels like Ezio is staring right through him. "We'd be glad of the help," he says, dry-mouthed, and tries to step away without looking like he's trying to avoid the man.

"Oh, Ser Ezio is very skilled in climbing buildings," someone in the crowd around them assures him. "With him here the work will be done in no time at all."

"Then it is settled," Ezio says, clapping his hands together. "When will we begin?"

Desmond swallows, imagining working next to Ezio all the while keeping secrets and lying and… "Tomorrow," he says, faintly. "We'll continue tomorrow."

"Ah, of course – it's Sunday. Apologies, I have been travelling and lost the track of days," Ezio says, considering him – obviously plotting _something,_ and even on the open street, Desmond suddenly feels cornered. "You will not be working today, then?"

"I… no," Desmond says hesitantly, sensing a trap.

"In that case," Ezio smiles. "Perhaps you could show me those treasures you found here at the church."

It sounds almost like a thinly veiled come-on. Seriously, is this how Ezio always talked? No wonder he was tripping into people's beds left and right when he was younger – everything the man says comes across as flirting, even when he isn't.

Desmond smiles a little at it before he can stop himself and then looks away before he does something stupid, like let show how well he knows this guy. Ezio probably wants to get him alone to interrogate him or something – no doubt he already suspects stuff. Which probably isn't very good for Desmond, but… it's just so _endearing_ , how casually open and flirty Ezio is. It really comes as easy as breathing for him, huh?

"Well?" Ezio asks, tilting his head. "What do you say, Brother?"

It's risky… but Desmond's time here is probably coming to an end anyway. There is no way he can keep up this act anymore, not with Ezio there. Might as well take what he can, until he's kicked out, or worse.

"Alright," Desmond says, nodding. "If you insist."

"I absolutely do," Ezio smiles, satisfied.

* * *

 

It's almost worse to visit the Auditore Villa at Ezio's side – remembering all the other times they'd been here together, times which weren't real and maybe never would be again. It's also a little funny – in his memory, Ezio almost never changed his clothes, wearing the Assassin's robes day in and day out. Here he's dressed more like… like he did in Florence, before everything started.

It's a weird sort of non-déjà vu, to realise that _of course_ Ezio must've had other clothes and _of course_ he wouldn't wear Assassin robes and armour all the time in his home. Everyone changed their clothes sometime, why wouldn't Ezio?

It makes it easier and harder to look at him. Desmond hadn't had bleeding effect in a while now – not once in the past – but if it's ever going to come, Ezio's going to be the trigger for it. Maybe this change of clothes will stall it a little.

"We're doing renovations at the villa too, of course," Ezio says while they walk up the stairs towards the villa. "Slow going though they are – we're moving room by room, rather than as repairing the building as a whole."

Desmond looks up to it, with its boarded windows and faded, peeling paint. "It's a big house."

"That it is – it will be years before the work is over," Ezio agrees and casts him a look. "I'm almost jealous of your task. Restoring the church is plenty of work, I'm sure, but Claudia says you might be finished in a month."

"We might," Desmond agrees. Or someone might, whether he will be there or not is left to be seen. "Thankfully we don't need to do anything to the walls themselves. If we did, it would be a whole lot more difficult."

"Hmm," Ezio hums, looking at him. "You have done well for our church. I'm sorry to say that it has been languishing in neglect for a long time. There was a priest here once, but he did not leave in good grace, I believe – and none have wished to take his place since. What brought you here?"

So it begins, huh. Desmond looks away, tugging idly at the rosary hanging from his belt – something he'd seen the monks at the church in Siena do, something he should probably be doing too. Over the last few days he'd heard some of the rumours people had came up about him – about him being kicked out of a monastery for his _beliefs_ or whatever… it makes for a good cover story, if nothing.

He doesn't really want to lie to Ezio though. Especially when the guy is already suspicious of him, and probably listening for lies. Desmond doesn't know if Ezio has yet figured out the skill for telling truth from lies, but… he really doesn't want to risk it.

Nor does he want Ezio to remember him as a liar, whatever happens. There's still a future to think about.

"I thought I could do something here," Desmond admits. "I'm not really sure what, anymore, but… I thought it was the place to be."

"A calling from God?" Ezio asks, half joking, watching him.

Desmond bows his head and smothers a wry smile. "Not exactly," he answers and lets the rosary hang. "If you ask around, you'll find out I'm not that good of a monk."

Ezio looks at him curiously at that and then smiles, thoughtful. "Well. I'm not that good of a banker," he says and looks ahead. "So I sympathise with you there.

They arrive at the villa, where Ezio shows him inside. Desmond hesitates a little – it looks like the floors have been just washed – but Ezio doesn't wait for him, so in he goes, dirty feet and all.

"Claudia!" Ezio calls, heading to her office. "Brother Desmond tells me he brought treasures from the church into your keeping – where are they? We would like to inspect them."

"Inspect them? Ezio you are not taking them, nor selling them –" Claudia's voice lashes out like a whip and then pauses. "Brother Desmond," she says, spotting him. "You are back from Siena, I see."

"The congregation arrived just half an hour ago," Desmond says and bows his head a little. "Hello, Lady Claudia."

"I hope the journey was without issues?"

"It was peaceful, thank you."

Ezio waves a hand between them. "The chests from the church, Claudia."

"Oh, right – I had them moved below," Claudia says, giving him a look. "Into the – vault. It is the safest place – if you wish to fetch them, you can do so yourself, they were not light."

"Ah, I see," Ezio says and turns to Desmond. "Please excuse me for a moment, I will be back shortly."

Vault, huh? That's what the Sanctuary is when it's in company. Desmond nods. "I'll wait," he says, tucking his hands into his sleeves and turning to Claudia. She looks a little irritated.

"I hope my brother hasn't been a bother," she says.

"He offered his aid in rebuilding the church, it was… gracious of him," Desmond says.

"Hmm," Claudia answers, leaning back behind her desk. "Did he, indeed?" she says, running a hand over her chin and considering him.

Desmond meets her eyes levelly. She already suspects something, Ezio's behaviour is probably a confirmation. "He offered his help with the roof," Desmond says. "We will begin tomorrow, if the weather stays mild."

Claudia considers him for a moment and then nods. "Good to hear it," she says. "Some honest work will do Ezio good."

Desmond nods, and after moment of watching him, Claudia goes back to considering her books and papers. She still keeps half an eye on him, as if just in case.

It would be nice to have nothing to hide.

Ezio comes back after five or so minutes, hauling the chests on his shoulder. "Come," he says. "We can spread it all out in the armoury and you can show me what is what."

Desmond nods and follows him out of Claudia's office, through the front hall and into the armoury. It's still mostly empty, but there are a few things on display – a sword, couple of daggers, pieces of armour… the empty spots make the place look a little sad and empty.

"It used to be a ballroom, or so I have been told," Ezio says, spotting him staring. "No one's held any balls here in a long while, though. Our family isn't really in position to host social gatherings."

"Oh," Desmond says, not sure which is more confusing about it. The another non-déjà vu about could have beens – the idea of Auditore family holding _parties_ and _balls_ in the Auditore villa, entertaining guests, having _dances_ – or how regretful Ezio sounds about it. The Auditore villa is a very grand sort of building, of course they would have social gatherings here – and yet, somehow, Desmond can only barely imagine it.

In the Animus, the Auditore villa always seemed empty and somehow without practical purpose – a shrine more than a house.

Ezio sets the chests onto the nearest empty table and motions him to open them. Desmond moves to his side, and then shivers a little at how close it puts him to Ezio – who apparently has no sense of personal space. He's close enough that Desmond can smell him, can feel his body heat.

It makes him feel stained, somehow. Ezio is so clean and smooth and _flawless_ still, and Desmond is really, really not.

Swallowing, Desmond opens the chests, revealing the meagre treasures of the church. "I guess the priest packed these away before leaving," he says, his voice dry. "I wonder why he didn't take them with him."

"Probably because of how much they weighed," Ezio says, leaning in – his voice almost in Desmond's ear. "Well now. Some of these look _valuable_."

Ezio is smiling, watching him – the lack of beard makes his smile look wider, less restrained somehow. And he is _clean_ , it's not just a feeling he's getting – this close up, Desmond can smell soap on him. Ezio's freshly washed and probably recently shaved too. Desmond doesn't even remember the last time had a proper bath. Sometime in the future, and even then it was in a shitty portable shower. And a shave? Forget it.

Ezio tilts his head, and it brings out lines of his throat, highlighting his Adams apple, the sinews of his neck – his skin looks so… "I admit, I'm not much for religion," Ezio admits, with sheepish sort of apology. "Will you tell me of these?"

Desmond looks away, blinking. "Well," he says and clears his throat. Shit, he doesn't actually have that good of an idea himself – he's done his best to figure this stuff out, but… all the damn texts are in Latin. "I hear the paintings were hung in the church once," he says, settling on the safest. "I didn't even dare to unfold them out of fear of breaking them, but the people tell me they both depict Maria…"

This definitely isn't something he expected – for Ezio of all people to make him feel so… impure, somehow. Why is that even an issue, of all the things, and all the shit going on for him, all the fuck ups he is and has committed – why does him being a little dirty even _matter_? People here don't care all that much about hygiene in the first place – no one's commented on it, and he does wash as often as he can, keeping himself as clean as he can. And yet…

It feels like if he gets too close to Ezio, he'll stain him. And maybe not just with dirt.

All the regrets of a much older Ezio Auditore are still there, murmuring his qualms and misgivings in Desmond's ear – and in face of this, this _shiny_ version of Ezio…

It feels like… like if Desmond gets too close, touches him, then the things he knows might spread from him to Ezio, infect him like some sort of virus. All the future horrors and disappointments. The grey older Ezio with all of his grimness, his unhappiness. And sure, older Ezio hadn't exactly been _miserable_ , the man had found joy and contentment in his life, but… he'd lost this younger Ezio's openness, this happiness, long ago.

Desmond tugs his hands into the sleeves of his robes as he talks, desperately stretching out what little he's learned and hoping it's enough to cover up for what he doesn't know. Ezio watches him as he speaks, only glancing at the artworks, so it's pretty damn obvious it's not really working.

"I'm sorry, I don't know much about them, personally," Desmond admits, wincing.

"Hmm," Ezio agrees, still watching him.

Desmond looks down, pressing his lips together.

He's probably being ridiculous, none of it even matters. Obviously Ezio knows, and is just waiting for him to slip, give him an excuse. Desmond doesn't think Ezio will try to hurt him, Desmond hadn't done anything to warrant it yet, he hopes… but it's damn obvious his act isn't really flying anymore.

He doesn't know what to do anymore, and Ezio isn't saying anything. The silence is getting kind of oppressive. "Ser Ezio?" Desmond asks after a long moment.

Ezio blinks at him and then leans back sharply, coughing. Desmond almost slumps with relief when the younger man shifts his footing, stepping back a little – putting almost a whole foot of space between them, _thank god_. Then Ezio turns to him, and quickly Desmond gathers himself again.

"Right, um," Ezio says and clears his throat again. "They look very well, the – the artworks, I imagine the paintings will have to be restored?"

"I wouldn't know, I don't know anything about painting," Desmond admits, glancing at him. What is his game? "Lady Claudia said something about her mother knowing a thing or two about art."

"Ah, Mother is… not likely to be of much use currently," Ezio says, turning away. "She is poorly. But maybe I can be of some help – I've been trying my hand at painting these last few years, and I know at least how to pin a canvas to a new stretcher – in fact, I believe I have some frames in my room which might be the right size."

Desmond blinks, a little confused. "Um," he says. "If you can, I guess," he says, uncertain now.

Ezio looks at him, considers something and then smiles. "Then I will fetch them," he says and bows his head in a way Desmond's completely forgotten he used to do. "Please, Brother Desmond, wait here. I will be back shortly."

"Right, of course, I'll… wait," Desmond says, blinking. Ezio heads away then, leaving him alone with the church relics and with the sparse weapons of the armoury and – ah. Is it a test? Is young Ezio savvy enough to test people like this? Is he gonna lay in wait, expecting him to grab a weapon and then… what?

This whole _thing_ is confusing. What does Ezio think – that he's a Templar, a spy like the mercenaries say, sent in by the Borgia – or the Pazzi?

"Christ," Desmond murmurs faintly and then winces, because he really shouldn't be throwing blasphemies around while pretending to be a monk. Awkwardly he follows it with, "son of God, son of Maria, give me strength." That sounds like a monk-like thing to say. Maybe.

But still, _Christ_ , this is gonna be terrible, isn't it.

* * *

 

Desmond is feeling a little sick with the sheer stress of it all by the time he manages to escape the Villa. He's not even sure what all of it was – was Ezio testing him, interrogating him, or what? He's not sure.

They'd restored the paintings, to the best of their ability anyway. Ezio had been delicate with them, but surprisingly skilled – showing his experience from Leonardo's shop, maybe. With Desmond helping as much as he knew how, Ezio had stretched and nailed the paintings into new frames, checking them for damage and proclaiming them well enough preserved. He'd even promised to get them new picture frames, so that they could be displayed in style once the church is fully renovated.

There was nothing said about Desmond's deceit, or his lies, or the by now obvious fact that he isn't actually a monk. Ezio had to know by now, right? He had to, Desmond was terrible at keeping the secret. But he hadn't said anything, acting a bit weird but cordial overall, and letting him go without so much as a warning.

"I will see you tomorrow," he only said and smiled. "For the work on the church roof."

"Yes," Desmond said faintly, feeling like he was hanging on a fraying rope, or teetering on the edge of a cliff. "Tomorrow, Ser Ezio."

Desmond's still kind of out of it when he makes his way to the church, not sure what to do with himself. It's later now, almost evening, and no one is there. It's just as well. He feels _shaken_ , for some reason, and nothing really even happened. It was just… the potential of things happening.

Drawing a breath, Desmond looks between the church and the door leading to his humble little home – he chooses the church, opening the doors and stepping into the shadowed space. It's colder inside, and Desmond breathes in gratefully, hoping it will calm down his still pounding heart.

Then he spots it.

There's an altar in the church now.

It's not very grand, but someone had obviously made it recently – the wood is new, freshly lacquered, and there are carvings on the side, like pillars, and a cross in the middle. It's not exactly gold-plated, not as intricate as some master work by Leonardo da Vinci, say, but it's someone's handiwork, and it's beautiful.

Someone in Monteriggioni had, in secret, made an altar for the church and delivered it when he wasn't looking.

Desmond walks over to it, and it seems right to kneel down in front of it, like he'd watched people do in the Basilica of San Francesco. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen," he murmurs, makes the sign of the cross, before crossing his hands.

He's been faking faith for days now. He's never really… thought about what he believed. He'd been raised an atheist, with the knowledge that God wasn't real, that religion was made up by men, and its rules were all fiction. _Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted._

Faith seems to give people so much hope and security though, he's kind of jealous of it, the ability to believe. He's met gods, or would be gods, and he's seen religious men lose faith to the point where they became nearly mad because of it. It's all so messy, but it still seems… nice, to have that kind of faith, that kind of trust in higher power.

Desmond bows his head, still kneeling there in the empty church, and closes his eyes. "Help me, oh Lord, tell me what should I do?" he murmurs. He doesn't really expect anything, but it's not exactly a joke either, because it would _really_ be nice to get an answer for that one.

Behind him, he can hear the flutter of wings.

Startled, Desmond whirls around to look, his heart skipping a beat.

On the church steps there's a pigeon, watching him. It tilts its head at him, cooing, and then meanders off, down the steps and out of sight.

Slowly, Desmond gets up, and follows it. There's usually a lot of pigeons in the square in front of the church, but it's empty now aside from this one bird, which pecks at the ground in search of crumbs before taking off, into the air. Desmond's eyes follow it as it flies, until it settles to perch on the corner of a rooftop across the square – just above the hay cart below it.

A perfect spot for a Leap of Faith.


	6. Chapter 6

Carlotta serves him wine, while across the hall the girls of Fiore Mortale giggle and wave at Ezio enticingly, hoping to catch his eye. Ezio smiles back, accepts the glass of wine and leans back. His mind is thoroughly elsewhere.

"I heard you made some time for our good Brother Desmond," Carlotta says, while sitting across from him. "And put some work into his church as well."

"I thought I'd pitch in, for good faith," Ezio comments, whirling the wine in its glass, smelling it. It's obvious that Fiore Mortale is doing well – he has lost his taste for finer, more expensive wines a while ago, but he can still recognize a good vintage when he smells it. "You implied there was something to be seen there."

"Many things," Carlotta agrees, herself taking up a tea cup instead. "Tell me, my dear, what did you see?"

Ezio thinks back, smiling a little. Many enticing discrepancies and alluring little slips. Brother Desmond is not a liar by nature, and it obviously grates on him to do so – he squirms when pressed into it, even when it concerns smaller things. It almost made Ezio press the matter just to watch him struggle, but at the light of the man's nearly panicked eyes, it would have been too cruel.

"He is not a monk at all, is he, and never has been," Ezio says.

"I suspect not. Not even a lay brother, I do not think – the man hardly knows his prayers or his saints," Carlotta agrees. "Likely he stole the habit he wears, and now it has become a mask he cannot dare to undress – or perhaps, it has grown on him."

"Hm," Ezio hums, agreeing, and leans back with the wine, not drinking yet. "He is neither ordained nor has ever been cloistered," he says. "And yet…"

"And yet," Carlotta agrees, smiling, and sips her tea. "You've seen him interact with the people."

Ezio hums. It's small things, but they are notable. The appreciation he has for people is honest, that much is obvious, and the humbleness is not fake either. The man could have taken the church treasures, the donations the church has no doubt been given, and used them for himself – and he has not. According to Claudia, he nearly refused the house she offered him, despite how old, small and rundown it was.

Whatever has driven the man into a disguise, it was not ill intent, nor a deceptive nature. Likely, it was desperation, situation he could not escape and avoid, which has now by natural progression of time and happenstance driven him into a corner he cannot easily get out of.

"I have heard that he does well for the people," Ezio says. "And the people seem to like him."

"They do – the man gives soothing advice and has an excellent ear for listening," Carlotta agrees. "And he seems to genuinely care."

"And yet, he is a liar."

"Aren't we all?" she asks, giving him a look, and Ezio tilts his head in agreement, sipping his wine at last.

"Have you been able to discover anything about his past?" he asks.

"Nothing whatsoever," Carlotta admits. "I sent a runner to the abbey I suspect his robes originate from, but it was of no use – there was nothing to be found or heard there, likely Brother Desmond has never even been seen in those parts. And he has kept his past a secret these last few days, there is no telling where he comes from."

"He speaks with florentine accent," Ezio points out.

"And I have written to Paola to see what she can uncover – so far, she has not found anything," Carlotta says apologetically. "Whoever he was and whatever he did, it might not have been notable enough to stir rumours."

"Something must've happened to drive him out, barefoot and in disguise."

She nods in agreement. "Something must have," she says. "But crisis can be quiet and personal as well as loud and public. It could have been anything – a love story gone sour or treason against his nation. So far, our search has come up with nothing."

Ezio nods slowly and thinks back to all he'd figured out about Brother Desmond, in between getting thoroughly distracted by the shape of his neck and the line of his cheeks. The man looks like a sculpture – it's impossible not to stare at him.

The people about the church had nothing but praises to give the man, his work, his dedication to the restoration of the church – and then there was the supposed miracle of the chests. The story itself wasn't that unbelievable – happy coincidences happened, Ezio himself had been subject to a few, but that didn't make him believe them miracles. What was interesting was Brother Desmond's reaction to the story.

He never called it a miracle, did not praise God or saints or angels for it, and he did not claim himself holy for it. Anyone would – had any of the Pazzi conspiracy's more religious members witnessed such a thing, they would have been quick to claim themselves and their mission Chosen By God, and likely more. Any man with a shred of self-interest and ambition might have taken advantage of such incident.

Brother Desmond had only claimed logic – that the support had loosened while he'd worked, and weight of the chests brought the platform down. Never once did he mention divine intervention. It wasn't false humility either, or even embarrassment – the man simply put no heed to this supposed miracle. That, first and foremost, proved his nature.

"What do you think of him, Carlotta?" Ezio asks, looking at her. He'd heard Claudia's opinion, he'd heard what the mercenaries thought, and he'd seen the man for himself. But Carlotta was something of a spy – her eyes saw deeper. "Honestly, what is your impression?"

Carlotta considers him over her tea cup and then lowers it. "I think he is of great use to Monteriggioni," she says. "And we are likely not going to find a better man for our church, not without risks."

"And yet he is not a priest, he is not even a monk," Ezio says. "Does he even know what to do?"

"Likely not," Carlotta agrees, amused. "But he has not so far, and has done well regardless. Honestly, I am holding my breath, waiting for him to hold his first sermon – if we can press him to the task. It will likely be wrong in all accounts, but I think it will also be very enlightening."

Ezio narrows his eyes a little. "The man seems… conflicted," he says. "Seems a little cruel to press him to a task he's ill prepaired for."

Carlotta smiles at him, a little sadly. "Yes," she agrees, looking him up and down, her eyes lingering at his wrist – where Ezio had pulled on the bracer without even thinking. "But sometimes it makes men great."

* * *

 

The next morning, after a brief breakfast with Claudia during which she highly disapproved his visit to Fiore Mortale the night before, Ezio heads to the church. Brother Desmond is already awake there, though not yet working – he is sitting crouched near the fountain in the square in front of the church, and for a moment Ezio expects – or perhaps hopes – to see him washing his feet. He is not – instead he is holding a handful of breadcrumbs to pigeons, which are eating from his hands.

The man looks more at ease this morning than he had the evening before – and the sunlight favours his face and its fine shape beautifully, painting him in gold on one side and casting him in shadows on the other. As he sits there, still, the pigeons peck at his fingers and palms – one particularly adventurous bird jumps to stand on his thumb, peering at his face before turning to the crumbs.

Brother Desmond grins, delighted, and it lights up his whole face.

His heart skipping a beat, Ezio shifts to stand behind a corner to avoid detection so that he can watch a little longer. His presence would likely make the monk tense up again, and this sight seems rare – this smile, so wide and unrestrained. The man definitely had not smiled in such a way in company the day before.

The day before, when Ezio had figured the true nature of the monk, he'd considered pushing his luck and drawing the man into his bed – or really, to any available suitably soft surface. Had he shown any interest, any inclination, Ezio would have – and Brother Desmond _had,_ on occasion. His eyes lingered on Ezio's face, on his neck, straying down to his chest before he looked away markedly often. But when Ezio had gotten closer, he'd tensed, and when he'd spoken to him softly, enticingly, he'd grown confused.

None of the usual tricks seemed to make the man relax, they only made him tense and wary, and it was not the spirit in which Ezio wished to approach another.

But good lord, had Brother Desmond smiled to him like _that_ the evening before, Ezio isn't sure if he could've relented.

As Ezio watches, Brother Desmond throws the bread crumbs, pouring them off his hands once the birds had eaten most of them. The one sitting on his hand refused to budge, and Desmond stands with it, stroking a finger over the bird's chest as it coos at him – a messenger bird, perhaps, used to handling. After a moment, Desmond gently throws it into the air, watching it take to air and circle to perch on a roof corner.

He looks wistful, when he turns and spots Ezio – and then he does a most curious motion of first tensing, and then relaxing again. A man caught in the act, who then remembered the act was nothing criminal. It's endearing, how sheepish he looks.

"Good morning, Brother Desmond," Ezio says, pushing past the corner, smiling.

"Morning, Ser Ezio," the monk says, brushing his hands together. "You're a little early – the others do not usually arrive until hour from now."

"I'm used to early hours," Ezio admits. Rather, he's used to catch his sleep in bursts of few hours whenever he can, and full night's rest is something he likely will have to get used to, again. "So I thought I might as well come and see."

"Not much to see yet," Brother Desmond admits and peers at the church, shading his eyes with his palm. "But maybe we can fix that bell rope."

Ezio arches a brow. Brother Desmond seems… less tense than the day before. Hm. "Certainly – just tell me what to do, I'm yours to command," he says with more warmth than necessary, testing – will it make him tense anew?

It doesn't – Brother Desmond smiles, half hidden as he turns his face away, clearly amused. "Well then," he says. "Climb on up and tell me what you see."

 _Curious_. Ezio considers him and then moves to scale the side of the church, glancing over his shoulder for the Brother's reaction. Ezio knows he makes a striking silhouette like this, without the robes to hide the shape of his waist and behind. It's hard to say if Brother Desmond's gaze is appreciative – but he certainly _watches_ , his eyes following every move.

Ezio perches on the roof corner, by the bell tower, and spreads out one arm. "Now what, Brother?"

"Let's see which way the bell rope is ought to go," Brother Desmond says, and heads inside the church, to check from within. "I think I see an opening – it looks there's a channel, but it's blocked," he calls from within.

"There were many bird nests," Ezio agrees. "Is there a pole I can use to clear it?"

They work together to get the bell rope to its proper place, during most of which time Ezio cannot see Desmond, only hear him. The channel from the little bell tower down to the church is very badly blocked by decades of bird nests, bird droppings and who knows what else – they have to resort to scraping it all off with sticks and their hands, Ezio working from above while Desmond works from below.

Ezio doesn't realise the position it puts Desmond in, not until the channel clears, all the gunk that was trapped within it rains down upon Desmond – and inside the church the man lets out a yelp of surprise, and falls. There's a sound of scraping, wood breaking, something snapping – and then a thud, as Desmond falls on the church floor.

Quickly Ezio swings down from the church roof and drops down to the steps, to find Brother Desmond sitting on the church floor, holding his bare foot and wincing. "Brother Desmond!" Ezio quickly hurries to his side. "What happened –?"

He looks up and – oh, of course, he forgot. The famed platform crash left Desmond nothing to stand upon, he must've been holding onto the interior wall, and judging by the marks on the wall, he had his feet braced on the broken supports. And then he'd lost his hold.

Ezio kneels in front of him and winces at the sight of blood seeping from under the man's tightly holding hand. "I am so sorry – let me see?"

"It's not deep, just a scrape," Brother Desmond says, wincing, as he moves his hand a little, and blood spills onto his palm. " _Shit_ ," he mutters, making Ezio's brows arch. "I need to clean this, I need to –"

"Please, let me help," Ezio says, and quickly moves to help him up. Brother Desmond lets him, wincing as he tries to hold his bleeding foot and then giving up. He leaves a trail of bloody tracks on the way to the fountain, where Ezio helps him sit on the side of it, kneeling in front of him to inspect the wound.

It is not deep, not bad enough to break bone or tear muscle, but the skin is badly broken and there are splinters.

"Ezio," Desmond says. "Can you run to the doctor and get me alcohol?"

" _Alcohol_?" Ezio asks, confused.

"Yes – the clearest and strongest he has," Desmond says, lifting the bleeding foot to rest on one knee, inspecting the cut. "And a bottle of distilled water, if he has it – and salt. I will try to pay him back, somehow."

"But shouldn't you –"

"Ezio, please, before I risk infection."

Ezio stands, more due to the tone of his voice than because he fully understands. "I will be back in a moment," he says, and then he runs, as fast as he can. Thankfully, though the doctor's shop isn't open for business yet, Doctor Gaspari is present, in the middle of chopping ingredients, and quick to help when Ezio tells him what happened.

"Take this too – and this, so we may bind the wound. That man needs some footwear," he says while piling medicine into Ezio's arms.

"I agree with you there. Why he has none, I would like to know," Ezio says, looking at the medicine. "He asked for alcohol, distilled water and salt, though I know not why."

"Hm," the doctor says and then gets them, adding them to Ezio's arms. "There – now let's go."

Desmond has done nothing to wash the foot by the time they get there – he's only holding it to staunch the bleeding. He has a pinched look of pain and a little bit of fear on his face, which clears away when he spots Ezio and the doctor. "Good," he says. "You have the water and the salt?"

"I have medicine here," Doctor Gaspari says. "But first we must wash the wound –"

"Not with the fountain water, the birds use it, it's not clean. The water and the salt – mix them, I'll use that," Desmond says, nodding to things in Ezio's arms. "One teaspoon for every two cups of water. Please."

"Hmm. Salt does have purifying qualities…" Doctor Gaspari says thoughtfully and turns to do as asked, while Ezio crouches down to set everything on the cobblestones. Desmond waits, gripping his still bleeding foot, until Doctor Gaspari is done mixing the salt, shaking the bottle until it has all dissolved. Then he turns to attend to Desmond – who looks at the Doctor's hands and very visibly winces. There are bits of herbs and other things caught in his gloves.

"I'll do it myself, please," he says a little desperate. "Thank you."

Ezio watches from the side with interest, and then takes the bottle from Doctor Gaspari's hands. "Let me," he says. "It will be easier if someone else does it. Just tell me what to do."

Desmond hesitates, looks at his hands and sighs. "Christ," he murmurs. "Wash your hands first and then rinse them with alcohol."

"Brother Desmond," Doctor Gaspari says, sounding amazed. "Have you studied medicine?"

The monk blows out a breath, looking very uncomfortable, and doesn't answer. But, whatever his hang-ups and grievances are, it doesn't matter – the man is bleeding _now_. So Ezio washes his hands, rinsing them with the alcohol like requested, until Brother Desmond seems satisfied and finally lets him attend to his foot, and wash it with the salty water.

The heavy bleeding makes it look worse than it actually is – though it's certainly not pretty. Ezio washes it carefully, brushing his thumbs over the sole of the foot to clear away the layers of dirt around the wound until the skin comes clean, and until the wound is clear. Doctor Gaspari then instructs him, a little impatiently, in removal of the splinters, while Desmond sits, watching, curiously quiet.

"Does it hurt?" Ezio asks.

"I've felt worse – don't worry about it," Desmond says, tilting his head to watch. "Doesn't look like it needs stitches."

"No, I think you will be fine with a bandage," Doctor Gaspari says. "But you need shoes, Brother Desmond, especially while the wound heals."

Desmond sighs, forlorn. "They would have to be made to fit, and I cannot afford them," he says and closes his eyes. "God blessed me with big feet," he mutters. "For my sins."

Ezio looks up from the foot he's holding and then down on it again. He'd offer his own shoes, if Desmond's foot wasn't notably bigger than his own. "I'm sure someone can make you sandals at least," he says, brushing his thumbs over the dirty skin. "I'll try my own hand at it, if there's no artisan capable here."

"You don't have to do that," Desmond says quickly.

"Going by the evidence, someone must," Ezio says pointedly and rubs his fingers over the bones of Desmond's feet, examining the state of it "I think I should wash the whole of it before it is bandaged – to keep it clean."

Brother Desmond looks down at him and then leans back, looking a little embarrassed now. He clears his throat and then nods. "Alright," he says quietly. "Please."

The bleeding has eased up a little, though the wound still bleeds. Though he wishes he could take his time, Ezio makes some haste in clearing away the layers of caked dirt, revealing clear, if in part calloused skin underneath. Brother Desmond's feet are as well shaped as the rest of him seems – long, slender, and strangely statuesque.

Ezio runs his thumbs over the back of the man's foot and then, as the water runs as clean as it likely will. Desmond looks and nods, "Now, wash it with the alcohol," he says. "It will kill rest of the impurities."

"Unusual treatment, that," Doctor Gaspari comments. "It is likely to hurt quite a bit."

Ezio looks up sharply at that, and Brother Desmond smiles wryly. "That's how you know it's working," he says and laughs a little. "I really don't want an infection. Please."

So, Ezio takes the alcohol. The pained wince Brother Desmond makes at the splash of it over the wound is marked, but so is the restraint with which he tries to keep his foot still. Ezio winces in sympathetic pain, and splashes once more, and again, until Brother Desmond, squirming, stops him.

"I think, I think that's as good as it's going to get," Desmond says, wincing, his toes tightly curled in pain.

Ezio grimaces in sympathy and accepts the bandage Doctor Gaspari is holding out for him.

"I likely don't have to tell you to keep the wound clean," Doctor Gaspari says to Brother Desmond. "You have been hiding knowledge from us, Brother Desmond."

"Not hiding, Doctor – it simply didn't come in use yet," Desmond says, watching Ezio wrap the bandage around his foot. "Thank you, Ser Ezio."

"My pleasure," Ezio says, winding over and under and around Desmond's heel, until the whole of the linen wad is covered. "There," he says. "How does it feel?"

Desmond meets his eyes and nods. "Very secure, thank you."

"Well," Doctor Gaspari says and gathers up his medicine. "I think you will live – but first sign of infection, inflammation or pus, come straight to me, and I will see it set to rights."

"Of course," Brother Desmond says, nodding. "Thank you, Doctor – I will pay you back for this."

"Don't worry about it, it's my duty to keep the local priest in good health – and here, I think, that means you," Doctor Gaspari says. "Try and keep your weight off the foot – and no climbing."

"Yes, Doctor, thank you."

Ezio, still holding Desmond's foot in his lap, watches the doctor bustle away, muttering to himself as he goes. Then he looks up at the monk.

Brother Desmond swallows and moves to get up. "Thank you, Ser Ezio – I appreciate –" he stops, as Ezio's hands move to hold his heel and refuse to let him draw his foot away. "Um – Ser Ezio."

"Your other foot," Ezio says, watching him closely, and carefully restraining the urge to stroke his hand up the back of the man's calf, though he wants to. "I should wash it as well."

"Um," Brother Desmond says, awkward. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to. A man shouldn't leave a task half finished," Ezio says, and squeezes the man's foot, rubbing his fingers just at the edges of the bandage. "And afterwards I will see about finding you some footwear. It doesn't do, for the manager of our church to walk around barefooted, getting injured like this. It reflects poorly on us, surely."

Desmond's foot flexes in his hands and he swallows, lowering his eyes to it. Obviously Ezio is pushing his luck now, but now that he is here and touching the man, he is ill willing to stop so soon. Especially since he really does want to wash the man's feet – it seems like a crime, to leave them so dirty.

"Ser Ezio," Desmond says, uneasy with something like realisation.

Ezio smothers the urge to lick his suddenly very dry lips. "Let me, please."

Brother Desmond's lips tighten a little and finally he nods – and as sun hits his eyes, they seem to glow like embers.

His heart skipping a beat, Ezio bows his head, feeling strangely vitalised all of sudden, and then he takes Brother Desmond's other foot in his hands, running his fingers over the lines of sinews in the back of it, before applying himself to the task of washing it.

He has washed others before, and been washed by them – usually always as a prelude to greater pleasures, once properly clean. It cost a little extra to have a bath in a brothel, but it was a pleasure in it's own right, especially of late, when Ezio could rarely stay in any sort of comfort or luxury. In a brothel, at least, he could rely on his privacy being kept – in a proper and law-abiding inn it was rarely ensured, nor his safety. Twice he had been given away to guards, once he had been accosted in a bath. In brothels, many things were safer. Never mind more pleasant.

In light of that, this seems perhaps more intimate than it should, seeing as they are on a very public square, and there are people already moving about them, watching.

Ezio massages his fingertips under the arch of Brother Desmond's foot, easing his fingertips between his toes, brushes away all the dirt he can manage, and Brother Desmond watches, silent, as he does it. That tense, charged silence makes Ezio all the more keen to perform well in his task, and he cannot be the only one feeling the sensuality of it. Brother Desmond's eyes seem to burn like ambers, as Ezio's fingers still seek to creep up, to follow the lines of muscle and bone, to find a knee – to push the black, ragged hem aside… but that, that would be going too far.

Brother Desmond must see the urge in his eyes, for he has gone a little flushed. "Thank you," he says, choked.

Ezio restrains his urges – to kiss the man's knee, to push close, to fit the man's foot in his lap to brush against, so many delightful sins this sort of thing could lead to – and instead he lets the man's foot slip from his hold. "You are welcome," he says and clears his throat.

There are people watching them, and he thinks he might have embarrassed them both – and yet, he cannot say he feels any remorse for it.

Ezio rises to his feet. "I will find you some footwear," he says.

"Alright," the monk says, his voice faint and obviously affected. "Thank you."

Ezio nods and then quickly turns away. He can feel Brother Desmond's eyes following him, but dares not to look. If he does, he is not sure he can restrain himself.

The man had been affected, he's sure of it – Brother Desmond's blood had been as roused as was his. And he had been stunned by it, surprised – but not disgusted, not yet anyway. If his make-believe vows would stand in the way or not, if he held … that was left to be seen. But for now… he'd been _affected_.

Ezio clears his throat and then sets out to his new task – it would give his passions time to settle, and perhaps, give him time to plan. Brother Desmond might not hold terrible secrets, they might be personal shames and failings only, perhaps a bit of secret knowledge…  But Ezio cannot wait to draw each and every truth out of him.

There is no better place to tease information out of a man – or a woman – than in bed. The entirety of the information network the Assassins rely upon stands in testament to the fact – it is what makes the courtesans so effective. People speak freely between the covers and between a lover's thighs, their restraints lost in bliss.

All Ezio needed now, was to figure out a way to get Desmond there.


	7. Chapter 7

Can you have a crisis of religion when you've never actually been religious? Because that's what it feels like, or at least that's the closest thing Desmond can equate the whole feeling to. Well, it could be existential crisis too, why not. Probably not midlife crisis, he's only twenty six, it seems a bit early for a midlife crisis. Granted, Ezio is younger than him by five years or so, so as far as that goes it checks out, but –

Yeah, no, not going there. Still, it feels like Desmond is at the crossroads here, and each way goes downhill – like whichever way he chooses, there's no climbing back out of the pit he'll inevitably end up falling into.

And Ezio is… Hell, Desmond doesn't even know what Ezio is in this analogy. Signpost of the tavern full of wine and prostitutes maybe. Or maybe the crossroads demon, tempting him into… something.

Lord give him strength. And the funny thing is, Desmond isn't even sure if he's praying for it out of 21st century habit of invoking God's name in vain as a convenient emphasis, or as a further act of pretense to keep up the act… or if he's honestly and sincerely asking help from a deity he's no longer sure he _doesn't_ believe in. What even _is_ belief at this point?

Christ, he's so confused.

Ezio is finishing up on the roof, where he's working with some of the younger locals – in the course of less than a day they've finished setting up the planks and are almost done re-tiling the roof. All of the ceramic roof tiles are old – most of them came from the church itself, they're only being relaid, and even the newer additions to cover for broken tiles are second hand. It gives the church roof an uniform colour at least, not a patchwork one like some had worried – actually, it looks pretty good.

Desmond hasn't had much of a hand in it since the initial work of taking the roof apart – after finding out that he'd injured his foot, the people had insisted he stay down and not stress himself. So Desmond had been relegated into a managerial position on the ground level, seated on a bench someone had dragged to the church square. Not that there is much managing to be done. Mostly he's trying to manage the women who are trying to feed him.

"Thank you, Madame Ricoveri, please – I'm sure I can't eat anything more," Desmond says despairingly to the wife of Mino, one of the men working on the roof.

"But you're all skin and bones, it just won't do!" she says. "We have all this food, and I made these sweets and you've barely had a bite – come, you must have another."

They've set something of a impromptu picnic in front of the church, and people had come in with whatever food they had on hand to share with the volunteers – which had turned out to be not an inconsiderable amount of food. Bread, pastries, fruit – and of course, people had brought some wine too.

Monteriggioni is making a day of the church repairs, it seems – even the mercenaries are taking part and don't look as sour about it as usually.

"Just another bite, Brother Desmond – it would be rude to refuse," Madame Ricoveri says pointedly and shoves the plate of panforte at him.

"Alright – thank you," Desmond says, though he's really not sure how he can fit it in. His stomach isn't what it used to be – first with the Animus messing up his metabolism and then coming to the past… "Bless you," he says, a little belated. "And blessings upon your cooking too, it looks wonderful."

She smiles, satisfied. "Good," she says. "Now if you will actually _eat it_ …"

Desmond makes a half hearted attempt at a bite and sighs with some relief when she turns away.

If only he could be working on the roof, he wouldn't be the constant target of well-meaning nagging. Sadly, Ezio seems to have things well in hand, on the roof. Desmond would feel a bit guilty about it, except Ezio seems to be in his element up there – and no one is bothering him to eat more. For an Assassin and a nobleman, Ezio seems to honestly enjoy the manual labor, laying first nails and then the tiles. He's still in command, directing people, pointing what to do where, but he also does most of the actual physical work.

"It seems to be coming well," Stefano comments, sitting beside Desmond, resting his hands on a cane.

"Yes, it looks good," Desmond agrees, picking at the piece of panforte and watching Ezio slot another tile in place.

"With the roof done, that will be it for the church, won't it? Unless you're looking to plaster the walls," the old man comments.

Desmond smiles a little and shakes his head. "I don't think we could swing that one with just goodwill and donation of materials," he admits.

"You have the goodwill of Ser Ezio now," Stefano says and looks pointedly at Desmond's feet.

Desmond looks down and smothers the urge to wiggle his toes in the slippers he'd been given. Ezio hadn't made them, in the end – he'd found them in the attic of one of the villagers, a woman named Valerie who vaguely remembered her own grandfather having been a remarkably large man. Valerie had happily donated the slippers to the cause, even though they were only soft-soled and nowhere sturdy enough for walking around for extended periods of time, they're the best you could find in Monteriggioni in Desmond's size.

What the townsfolk think of Ezio washing his feet, Desmond doesn't even dare to ask. There's been a lot of whispering behind open palms – a lot of pointed gesturing between him, Ezio, his feet. Ever since then people had been thrice as eager to begin fattening him up – and there's been offers of donations, which was nice, but...

God, he doesn't even know what _he_ thinks about it. Aside from the fact that it had to be some kind of public indecency, what Ezio had done.

 _Christ,_ he can still feel Ezio's warm hands on the skin of his feet, radiating heat through his very bones.

"I'm sure he could find a way to fund further repairs," Stefano says meaningfully.

Desmond coughs, getting his mind back to the present. "If he does, I'll be grateful," he says and looks up to Ezio again. "But whether he does is up to him."

Granted, Ezio had renovated a lot of houses and other buildings over the years, including this very church. At the time of reliving those memories in the Animus, Desmond actually had thought Ezio just threw money at the problem and let various architects do the work, but… maybe not. Watching him now reminds Desmond of learning what Ezio did in his later years, after Masyaf – the guy had had a _farm_. Back then it seemed utterly ridiculous that someone like Ezio might ever do something so menial, after all the riches he'd accumulated, but…

Ezio looks perfectly at ease with a hammer in hand.

… he's seemed perfectly at ease on his knees too, and – God _damnit_ , Desmond is not thinking about it.

Stefano looks at him as Desmond runs his hand over his face, trying to quell the straying thoughts. The old man clears his throat. "So what will you do once the church is finished?"

Desmond looks at him and lowers his hand with a sigh. He has no idea. No way can he hold Mass or anything like that. Hopefully people aren't expecting him to. Maybe he could lead people in prayer, but he's not so sure about that either, he doesn't know that many Catholic prayers, just the more common ones anyone knows.

"I suppose I will do what I have so far," Desmond says and shakes his head, looking back down to the panforte he's supposed to be eating. "The best I can with the hand dealt to me. All anyone can do, really – their best."

Now if he could do it without universe throwing a curveball after a curveball at him, that would be great.

Stefano hums, and at the church Ezio finishes his work, clapping people on the shoulders and shaking hands before dropping down to the street level and jogging their way. "I think the work is complete. What do you think, Brother Desmond?"

Desmond looks up and then stands up to have a better look. Ezio moves quickly to help him, before Desmond can wave him aside – his hand sliding under Desmond's arm while his other goes smoothly around his waist, to support him.

"Ser Ezio, it's only a scratch," Desmond complains. "I can walk on my own."

"The Doctor said to keep your weight off it," Ezio says, oh so reasonable, while holding his arm in his open palm, spreading the fingers of his other hand over Desmond's waist and pulling him to his side. It's almost as if he's asking Desmond to dance, the whole thing is so theatrical. "Please, it's the least I can do."

 _Sure it is._ Desmond casts him a look, automatically checking with Eagle Vision – Ezio's still frustratingly gold, which doesn't actually tell Desmond _anything._ Close up and personal Eagle Vision is almost useless – it refuses to tell him what Ezio's game here is.

Ezio arches his brows, smiles, and Desmond gives in with a sigh. "If you want to help me then, here," he says and holds the piece of panforte at him. "Eat this, please – I can't fit another bite."

Ezio looks first surprised and then delighted by this, and he probably would have eaten it from Desmond's fingers if he hadn't dropped the thing into the guy's hand. "My thanks," Ezio murmurs, low and pleased, and takes a ridiculously exaggerated bite. " _Mmm_."

God have mercy.

With this terrible transaction made, Desmond doesn't have a choice but to let Ezio support him as he approaches the church, examining the roof. "It looks good," he says awkwardly, constantly aware of every inch of Ezio pressed up against his side as they walk. "Looks like you did a good job. Thank you – and to everyone else, too," he adds to the other workers, now coming down. "Thank you all for your hard work."

"Now you have a place to hold services," Ezio says, casting him a glance and smiling. "Everyone's looking forward to it."

"Er," Desmond says, eloquent, looking at him.

Ezio tilts his head and smiles wider. "Myself included, of course," he purrs.

… maybe Desmond could claim grievous injury and lock himself up in his house. He did have an injured foot. Maybe a convenient little infection…

He's saved from getting to come up with an answer by a shout. "Brother Desmond! Brother Desmond – please, has anyone seen Brother Desmond?"

It's Guido, and he looks very pale.

"I'm here," Desmond calls, while Ezio all but stands to attention, getting subtly ready for action.  "Guido – what happened?"

"It's my wife – please," Guido gasps, catching his breath. "She is dying –"

Desmond's eyes widen. "Guido, I'm so sorry – the Doctor –"

"Doctor Gaspari is with her, he says it won't be long now," Guido says and looks at him. "Please – come read her last rites."

* * *

 

Guido and his wife live above what would one day be the tailor's shop – the shop itself is empty now, and a little rundown. Their house above it is in somewhat better shape, thanks to the way the family had kept it, with faded but nice furniture and curtains on the windows which had been bleached by sunlight but were still in one piece.

Guido shows Desmond and Ezio into the bedroom, where Ortensia – whom Desmond had yet not met but had heard a lot about from Guido – lays under heavy covers, with Doctor Gaspari attending to her, using a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off her brow. She's coughing, wetly, every so often, and it sounds horrible.

"Ortensia, my love," Guido says, going to her. "I have brought Brother Desmond – Ser Ezio is here also. Is the pain bad?"

"Guido," she says, weary. "Guido, come here, dear."

Ezio's hand on Desmond's bicep stops him before he can move to follow Guido fully to the bedroom, holding him back. He doesn't look anywhere near as lighthearted or flirty as he did before and his eyes are serious. "Do you know what to do?" he asks in a low tone, and his fingers squeeze firmly.

Desmond doesn't really, he has no idea. "I'm going to try my best," he says quietly.

Ezio's fingers tighten a little, and he hesitates, looking to the bed where Guido is taking his wife's hand, kissing it. "Guido and Ortensia are our oldest citizens," he says then. "They deserve to see their journey to the conclusion properly – can you give them that?"

So, _now_ the jig is up – when someone actually needs him to perform. Desmond hesitates, pressing his lips together. No, he probably can't do this according to scripture. He's collected bits and pieces of what he should know and do, but most of it is guesswork at best. The people of Monteriggioni call him heretical, and it's probably not without reason.

But what the hell does it matter – the woman is dying, and if she wants her rites done, and if Desmond's the best they got, then he's going to do the best he damn well can.

Ezio looks at him, taking his expression, and then he turns to look down, rummaging through the pouches of his belt and hands something to him – a bottle. "Bless her, anoint her, forgive her sins, and pray for her," he says while Desmond looks at the bottle. It's the oil of some kind. "There is a specific prayer for it, but I can't remember it – and I doubt it matters. None of this is right according to church doctrine."

Desmond closes his fingers around the bottle and looks at him. Ezio knows then. "Alright. Thank you," Desmond says and then turns to the bedroom, with Ezio following close behind.

Ortensia is a withered old woman, who, judging by the sound of her coughing and look of her skin, has some sort of lung disease, or maybe a bad case of pneumonia. While Doctor Gaspari steps aside to let Desmond approach her, she grips her husband's hand tighter and then releases, sighing.

"I had hoped," she croak, "to live a while longer yet, but Doctor Gaspari says it's only a matter of hours, a day at most, now."

"I am very sorry to hear that," Desmond says, while Ezio hovers near. "I'm sorry this is how we meet, Ortensia. Guido has told me much about you."

She reaches her hand and Desmond takes it, holding her thin fingers carefully. "I have things to get off my chest," she says, and pats Guido's hand weakly. "Leave me be, old crow. I want to confess."

Ezio hesitates a little, but as Guido steels himself and backs away, Ezio too steps back, looking at Desmond and nodding. Doctor Gaspari is already leaving the room, saying, "I'll be just outside – shout if her condition grows worse."

Desmond nods and then, as they close the door behind them, he pulls up a chair and sits down, to get his weight off his by now stinging foot. "For the sake of honesty," he says, "I'm not really much of a religious figure. This will be my first confession."

"Well, it's my first honest one too, and you're likely the best I'll get on this short notice," Ortensia says and coughs out a laugh. "Pretty too. Could do worse. I have things – terrible… terrible things, I don't want to bring them with me, when I go. Secrets I kept even from Guido," she draws a ragged breath and looks at him. "Will you take them off my shoulders?"

"I'd be honoured to," Desmond says gently and takes her hand again, holding it securely. "What do you have to confess, Ortensia? I promise, I will never tell a soul."

She draws a breath and sighs, and then begins unburdening her soul on him.

After all the things that weighed Ortensia had been released and Desmond had promised her none of her crimes were going to cost her neither her soul nor her place in heavens, the actual anointing and doing the last rites is almost a relief. For that part Guido and Ezio return, with Ezio surreptitiously motioning guidance to Desmond, showing him where to apply the oil and where to make the sign of the cross. The whole thing is probably a mess, but Ortensia breathes easier and smiles freer, her cataract grey eyes lighter than before.

"May the Lord bless you and guide you to his side," Desmond murmurs, "And may you find peace everlasting. Amen."

Ortensia closes her eyes and sighs. "Tell me, Father – what is Heaven like?"

Desmond hesitates, with Guido and Ezio and Doctor Gaspari all watching him. Then, slowly, he sits back down and takes her hand again. "It's…" he says, thinking. "It's a place full of light, where all the things you ever hoped to make and all the things you ever hoped to achieve can all become reality. It's a place where thought has form, and emotion becomes music. All the things that are great in the world are replicated there – for all who have passed to enjoy."

"It sounds…" Ortensia hums. "It sounds like a wonderful adventure."

"It is," Desmond agrees and lowers his eyes, patting her hand. "It is." _It was_.

He and Ezio depart from Guido's house not much after, leaving the husband and wife to enjoy the final hours together alone. Ezio is quiet as he helps Desmond down the steps from the second floor house, and Desmond is biting back the weirdest welling emotion he's ever felt. It's not grief or sadness, but it feels a little like it – but also like relief and joy? Is that what religious experiences feel like – conflicting?

Ezio doesn't say anything, as they step out of the stairwell and into the empty street. He looks thoughtful, though. Scarily so.

"So," Desmond says and clears his throat, handing Ezio back his bottle of oil. "How was it? How did I do?"

Ezio accepts the bottle slowly, considering it and then looking up at him. "It was well done," he says. He's got a whole new expression now – nowhere near as flirty or teasing as before, and not as hard as back in Guido's house. For some reason it makes Desmond's heart skip a beat. "Very well done."

Desmond wipes at his eyes, releasing a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "You know I'm not really a monk," he says with a sigh, smiling wryly. "Guess I should feel ashamed, huh? I keep telling you people I'm not a good one. Figured someone would have gotten a clue earlier."

Ezio tilts his head, considering, and then puts the bottle of oil away. "Yes, well, you're not a good liar," he says. "You claim to be a monk, which is false, and then you claim to be a bad one, which… is also false."

Desmond lets out a disbelieving snort. "What?"

"Well, I suppose you're not a very good monk. But from what I've seen, you might make a good priest," Ezio says, considering him while Desmond gapes at him. "Most of the people of Monteriggioni are excommunicated, did you know? My whole family included. The courtesans, the mercenaries, the majority of the population – very few here can freely step into a church."

"I – okay?" Desmond says faintly, taking support from a nearby wall as his foot begins to sting. "I – guess I knew that. I don't see how it's my business, I'm not a priest – I'm less a priest than I'm a monk, and I'm _not_ a monk."

Ezio looks at him and then smiles, taking his hand. "We're a flock of lost, sinful souls, abandoned by the Church, doing the best we can, with whatever we have, making our own way in the world," he says and lifts Desmond's hand to kiss his knuckles. "I think we can choose our own shepherd, too."

Desmond looks between his face and his hand. Seriously? Even now – and after what just happened? "I'm pretty sure that's not how any of this works," he says faintly, while Ezio mouths at his knuckles.

"I'm also fairly sure I don't care how things are _supposed_ to work," Ezio says, his eyes low-lidded and somehow hot as he takes Desmond's hand by the wrist and turns it. "After all…" he says, pressing lightly on Desmond hand, pushing it to tilt back. "Nothing is True."

The hidden blade on Desmond's arm snaps out, the stainless steel of it gleaming in the light of the late evening sun.

Desmond swallows and Ezio arches his brows, waiting expectantly, with the blade standing between them, Ezio's thumb pressing into his palm. Desmond releases a sigh and looks down at the blade. "Everything is Permitted," he finishes, rueful.

"It's a finely made blade, I almost didn't notice it," Ezio says quietly, his fingers stroking down Desmond's arm, feeling for the straps and the sheath of the blade through the fabric of his robes. "No bracer – just the blade."

"Yeah – it's… easier to hide, that way," Desmond agrees, and flicks his wrist, to re-sheathe the blade. They're quiet, standing close, with Ezio's hand still on his arm, feeling the buckles around it. "I honestly thought you'd be angry with me," Desmond admits. "That someone would be."

"You haven't hurt anyone," Ezio says, his hand moving up Desmond's shoulder. "You haven't stolen anything. You don't keep the donations you get – you've worked diligently at the task my sister gave you. The church is now restored, thanks to your effort. Why would anyone be mad?"

"The lies could be a good reason," Desmond comments.

Ezio smiles at that and shakes his head. "Small things that hurt none," he says, and his other hand settles on Desmond's waist. "Except perhaps you. I have noticed, it weighs on you – the secrets you keep."

Desmond presses his lips together and wonders if that's what Ezio's doing – trying to seduce the secrets out of him? It would almost be ridiculous, except it's _Ezio,_ and damn it – if _anyone_ can…

Ezio looks up at him, his eyes flickering between his eyes. "Whatever has sent you here in disguise aside, I have seen what kind of man you are, now," Ezio says and rubs his thumb against Desmond's shoulder. "I – and all of Monteriggioni – would have you stay and be our pastor."

"Didn't you just see how _bad_ I am at this?" Desmond demands incredulously, swaying a little. Damn, they're close now, almost pressed together. "I have no idea what I'm doing!"

"But you do it sincerely. You gave Ortensia peace of mind in the face of oncoming death," Ezio says and shakes his head. "And I have seen how you soothe others. That is far more than I have seen many fully ordained _bishops_ do."

Oh. Well… he would have, at that. Desmond looks away, conflicted. "I've been going by as a monk, not so sure how people would take my sudden rise in rank," he says with a shake of his head. "I think it would be a bit suspicious, really." Especially with the mercenaries already speaking against him.

"It needs not be explained, it need not even be spoken of," Ezio says, his voice low. "Do the work, and the rest will fall into its place."

Desmond blows out a breath, shaking his head with disbelief. Ezio isn't even inducted into the Brotherhood, he's been an Assassin now for, what, four years? And already he has that _inclination_ to be a Mentor, speaking from experience and seeing through things – putting things together. Gathering followers, allies, cohorts.

Is that what Desmond is? Is that why the guy is trying to seduce him?

"There could be a place for you here, honestly earned," Ezio says softly, tilting his head and looking up at Desmond through his lashes. "Monteriggioni was once the sanctuary for Assassins, and it can be again. Lies and all, I welcome you. You belong here, Brother. You don't need to feel guilty over it."

Desmond bows his head a little and sighs, watching him. "Christ Almighty," he murmurs as Ezio's hand trails down his shoulder. "You're something else. What are you doing?"

"Hopefully convincing you to take the position I wish to see you in," Ezio grins, lifting his hand, rubbing at the back of it with his thumb. "Is it working?"

Desmond swallows, swaying back a little. "Um, yeah," he says helplessly, his voice dry. "Yeah. Kind of." He's also making Desmond very worried about things he didn't realise he needed to be worried about with Ezio Auditore of all people. Like his fucking _heart_.

Ezio's smile widens. "Good," he says, and kisses Desmond's knuckles again. " _Very_ good."


	8. Chapter 8

As much as Ezio would like to let himself be thoroughly distracted by Brother – or perhaps now, _Father_ – Desmond, there are other concerns in Monteriggioni that have to be considered.

"The mercenaries are getting… anxious," Claudia tells him during the evening meal, while Bianca serves them wine and keeps their plates full. "You spending time at the church is making them wonder if your favour is straying – and I would hate to see what they might pull off to regain your attention."

"As if my favour is a dog to be beckoned with treats," Ezio mutters. "Uncle Mario is still the condottiero of Monteriggioni, not I. And you manage her minutiae more than either of us."

"Yes – but you are the one sitting on our budget," Claudia points out, taking her glass and saying, "Thank you, Bianca, you may go."

The maid curtsies and bows out of the room, leaving them alone with the dinner, the wine and the candlelight between them.

"Everyone knows you come back from a major assassination," Claudia says. "No one yet knows the details, but you took off your robes, that tells them it was successful – which usually means you came back with money. And not just a little of it this time, since you relaxed so quickly."

Ezio glances up from his food and then leans back. "You want to know how much too, Sister?"

"Considering the people you killed…" she trails away and watches him expectantly. When Ezio says nothing, she sighs and closes her eyes. "At least tell me if there is enough for the garrison."

"There is," Ezio agrees and rests his fork on the plate, watching her curiously. "And more else besides. But having seen the church…"

"The church is a thing for and of the people. The barracks are a military investment."

Ezio hums in agreement. People might happily put their free labour and well-intentioned donations to a town's church, investing in their souls. Barracks are not quite beneficiary to the people themselves – military is a matter of the state. Monteriggioni might be small and its people so few, but it is still something of a state onto itself – and the duty of its protection falls upon its lord.

Or in this case, who ever rules the treasury.

Still, having seen the church brought back from ruin by hard work and dedication and not a lick of gold from Monteriggioni's meagre coffers…

Ezio reaches for his glass. "I didn't expect you to side with the mercenaries in this," he comments. "You've never liked their presence much."

"I don't like their attitudes, I always knew it would be trouble," Claudia says with a huff. "They've had the run of Monteriggioni for years while Uncle Mario was distracted elsewhere, and it still shows. Sooner or later they were going to start to push back against changes you and I might make, and that time is now, it seems."

"And if we placate them with the funding they expect, that will not make things worse?" Ezio asks wryly.

Claudia sighs with agreement. "I just want to know what you plan to do, what renovations, so that I know to prepare accordingly," she says. "Will you put money into the garrison?"

Ezio rests the edge of the glass against his lips and then hums. "Half," he says. "Half of the planned budget. And depending on the results, if they put the work in themselves or not, then perhaps more – but from what I have seen, the mercenaries have been growing... entitled."

"You don't say," Claudia scoffs. "They have been entitled since the beginning. Why we must entertain mercenaries instead of our own militia, I would like to know."

"There aren't the people for militia," Ezio points out. "That is why Uncle Mario invited mercenaries to settle. There aren't enough young men here to make a proper military force."

She scoffs louder. "And people wonder why Monteriggioni's reputation is so low," she says and attacks her steak with vigour. "Here's to hoping – _praying_ even – that things change."

Ezio smiles and leans back, watching her. Then he gives her a number.

"What is that?" she asks, not looking up.

"The amount of money I brought back."

The utensils in her hand scrape loudly against her plate as she looks up, quick enough to give herself whiplash. Ezio arches his brow and takes another drink of wine.

"I killed Salviati in his own villa," he explains. "There was a vault there. The others were carrying not inconsiderable sums, likely in fear and paranoia. I also have Jacopo's jewellery – melted, it should fetch a hefty sum."

"Good God," Claudia says faintly. "That's – we haven't been this well in pocket since…"

Since they still lived in Florence and enjoyed the luxury of having a very successful father and the favour of the Medici. These days Ezio had to wonder though, whether their father had been a truly successful banker – or if it were the assassinations that brought home the bread.

Claudia gathers herself quickly. "If you only put half of the intended budget into the garrison, that still leaves plenty to spend," she says. "What – what do you intend to do with it?"

"We need a tailor and a cobbler for a start," Ezio says thoughtfully. "And permanent food market. I wouldn't say no to other artisans as well, a carpenter certainly would come in handy. The town needs further sources of income."

"Which are all good things, but useless when no one can buy anything from them," Claudia points out. "The people are poor, Ezio."

"And they aren't likely to get any wealthier if nothing changes," Ezio says. "We'll find artisans who will hire workers from around the town – local women to help the tailor, local men to help a carpenter, and so on. Give people income, give them something to spend it on, and things will change."

Claudia considers it and then hums. "Even if they do… I daresay we'll still need your income," she says quietly. "All this will only increase our expenses, especially in the beginning."

Ezio sighs in agreement. Even with this newest influx of money, the town won't miraculously turn into a bustling metropolis. "Just as well that there's Venice to consider," he says and reaches for his utensils again. "I'm not done using my robes just yet, Claudia, I've only hung them to dry."

She sighs and looks down. "I'm sorry," she says quietly.

Ezio hums. "I'm not," he answers honestly and bites into the steak. "Now, about the church. Tell me honestly – what do you think of Brother Desmond?"

"You've spent time with him now, it's the talk of the town," Claudia points out. "Shouldn't you have formed your own opinions? And did you _really_ wash his feet, like in some story from scripture?"

Ezio smothers the urge to grin smugly and gives her an innocent look instead. "He fell and injured his foot," he says. "I was only helping him."

She snorts, amused. "Sure you were," she mutters. "I've heard that story almost more times now than the story of his miracle. _Oh how humble and pious, how dedicated Ser Ezio is, seeking salvation in acts of humility_."

Ezio looks down, smiling at that.

"You are an embarrassment," Claudia sighs. "You've never been the religious sort. What are you plotting?"

"He seems good for the town."

"Everyone knows that – no one else has gone down on their knees for him, though," Claudia says and then seems to realise what she said. "Oh Lord, Ezio, you _didn't_."

"I haven't!" Ezio says, before he can stop himself.

"But you _want to_ ," Claudia accuses, her eyes sharp as she points a finger at him. "Good God, Ezio, the man is a monk! You can't – you can't seduce a monk! And not in front of the whole town!"

 _Watch him_. "Actually he isn't," Ezio says, coughing. "A monk, that is."

"Whatever he is, the people believe he is, and he's all but working as a priest for us!" Claudia says and throws a bit of bread at him. "I know the man is pretty, but have some shame – and don't chase out the one good thing that wandered here on its own!"

"Don't waste food, Sister, it's rude," Ezio admonishes, while throwing the bit right back to her. "And I am not chasing him away – I am, in fact, convincing the man to stay. Successfully too, I might add."

She hesitates in the act of throwing another bit at him. "Explain?"

Ezio hums and then shrugs. "The man is a nervous wreck," he says. "Thinking that any moment the secrets he's keeping and the lies he's weaved will see him banished, or worse. I am convincing him there is nothing to fear."

"By throwing yourself at him?" Claudia asks dubiously. "Yes, he has _nothing_ at all to fear from you, does he? Even if he's not truly a monk, he is a believer and devoted to God, Ezio."

"Devoted to something, yes. Church doctrine… I don't think so," Ezio says. _And he wants me,_ he thinks privately. "I reassured him and convinced him to not only stay, but to stay as our pastor. You should be thanking me, really."

"Lord," Claudia mutters with disgust, so some of his smugness must've leaked into his voice. "Can't you just go to Fiore Mortale and sate yourself there? Isn't that why we built the place?"

Ezio feigns offence. "At any rate," he says pointedly. "Brother Desmond agreed to holding a Service – not a proper Mass, granted, but a Service – next Sunday," he says. "At my very gracious request."

"That's what they're calling it now, is it? Gracious request? And Brother Desmond agreed to this scheme how – by moaning _yes, Ezio, pleas_ e?"

" _Claudia_!" Ezio says at her tone, a little surprised by how shocked he actually feels. "Mock me all you want, not him."

She huffs out a breath at that. "If he gives you the time of day," she mutters and grabs her wine glass, giving him a narrow look. "You said the man is nervous yourself – and now you're all but taking advantage of him? Sometimes, Brother…"

"I'm not – I'm only – listen," Ezio says, a little thrown by the spark of honest shame he feels. "I have only paid attention and been _nice_ – the only thing I perhaps persuaded him to do is letting go of his reservations and accepting his place in Monteriggioni, which is something he obviously wants. I would not bed him, or anyone, unwilling. And I have not."

Claudia sighs, running a hand over her eyes while Ezio runs a palm over his neck, embarrassed by this sudden bit of honesty. There's a silence for a long period of time, while they both hesitate and then drink to soothe their nerves.

Finally, Claudia speaks again. "I'm sorry," simple and sincere. "Of course you would not."

"Thank you," Ezio answers.

She nods and the tension is released. Then she says, "But in the future, keep it in your pants – and out of the _public_ ," and throws another bit of bread at him. "And by God, don't chase him away."

"I don't intend to," Ezio answers with some dignity – and nails her right in the middle of the forehead with an almond.

* * *

 

Ortensia passes the following day, slipping away that afternoon. Guido sends a word to the villa before going to the church – Ezio finds him there with Desmond, the pair of them sitting on the dais steps just in front of the altar, quiet after what looks like a very heartfelt, and mournful, discussion.

"Doctor Gaspari is tending to the body," Guido says, his voice hollow. "I thought – we thought – she wanted to be buried in Monteriggioni, not in Siena. We've lived here all our lives, were married here, baptized in this very church – she wanted to be buried here too."

Ezio looks at Brother Desmond, who arches his brows a little, looking wary. "If that is what she wanted, we will make it happen," Ezio decides and steps towards them. "We have a graveyard, we have a church… if you can do it, Brother Desmond," Ezio looks at the man, questioning. "I have no objections."

Desmond hesitates only a little and then nods, turning to Guido. "We will do it here," he says. "So as long as you understand that I'm not an ordained priest – I will do the best I can for her, but I'm pretty far out of my jurisdiction here."

"It doesn't matter," Guido says and closes his eyes. "So as long as she can stay at home."

Poor Desmond is put through something of a trial by fire, having to suddenly not only worry about holding Services, but a funeral as well, with all of it's arrangements and preparations. On the count of his discussion with Claudia, Ezio refrains from being a… distraction during the proceedings, but he gives Desmond all the advice he can.

"I've taken part in funerals before," Desmond says later, not quite looking at him. "It probably won't be to the letter accurate, but at least with this I have some experience."

Ezio has to wonder if that means he's lost many, if that is why he'd abandoned armour and sword and seems so at ease in a monk's habit instead. Granted, he doesn't look _comfortable_ in it, the robes are awkward on him, but he doesn't seem to be missing protection of leather and steel either.

What drives an Assassin to put down his weapons, so young still, and take up prayer instead? What had driven Desmond to travel so far from wherever he comes from, to join Monteriggioni? _Something_ had almost broken him, a terrible loss perhaps, and left him alone and confused. And yet, he is still driven to help people, perhaps more so than before. He is an Assassin, and yet he's humble and hides it, bows his head and hides himself.

It makes Ezio's fingers itch to uncover him.

"Whatever you need, Brother," Ezio says. "I will do my utmost to provide."

Brother Desmond looks at him from under his hood, and then speaks, wary. "Would you bring me flowers?"

Ezio's heart thuds in his chest. Oh? "In a heartbeat," he breathes. "If that's what you desire."

Brother Desmond turns away. "Flowers for the funeral service, Ser Ezio," he says and coughs.

"Right – of course," Ezio says and stops himself from reaching for Desmond's hand as he pulls away. "I will see what I can do."

Desmond shakes his head at him, even as he agrees with a, "Thank you, Ser Ezio."

Ezio looks after him wistfully and then sighs and runs a hand through his hair. So he really had come on too strong, then, strong enough to spook the man, to make him coy. Obviously, he could not win this one with strength alone, no matter how it made Brother Desmond so delightfully weak at the knees.

Well, no matter. Ezio has some time now, and enough to do to keep him busy. He can put in the time and effort and patience to see this through properly. And all victories are sweeter for the skill it takes to achieve them.

But first – flowers. For the church – and, most definitely, for Desmond's door.

* * *

 

During the days leading up to the funeral service, several other small but significant things happen.

Firstly, he and Claudia write an appeal for artisans to come work in Monteriggioni, with suitable enticements that might interest working men with a bit of adventure in their hearts… and a promise of their expenses covered for a year, within reason.

Next, Ezio negotiates with the mercenaries concerning the garrison.

"Ser Mario promised to cover the full budget once fortune favoured the town," Ciro says, giving him some sideways looks. "It will take at least that much to cover all the materials and workers."

"I'm sure Uncle Mario would cover the whole budget if he could – but fortune has not favoured the town yet," Ezio says and looks at him plainly. "I have seen the changes in the town since the arrival of Brother Desmond – it is inspiring, don't you think, what industrious spirit and hard work can accomplish. The church had an estimated budget of half of what the barracks will take, did you know? And they did not need a single coin in the end."

"The monk got money from the people," Ciro objects. "He got donations and free labor of most every able-bodied man in the town, just because it was the _church_ that was being rebuilt. We will have none of such benefits. We must spend our own money to achieve the same for the barracks."

"Sad to see that the people have so lost their faith in the mercenaries of Monteriggioni that they don't even consider lending a helping hand," Ezio comments and looks at him. "Sad to also know that there are no able-bodied men among you, to share the labor. And finally – it's my money, not yours."

Ciro hesitates, coughing.

"You will have half of the budget Mario promised you," Ezio says. "Do well with it, and we will see about the rest."

"Monteriggioni needs its mercenaries, Ser Ezio – don't forget who keeps this town safe," Ciro says quietly.

"Yes – but that's the wonderful thing about mercenaries," Ezio says flatly. "One can always hire new ones."

"Some of our men men have lived in this town for decades! We have wives here, families!"

"And yet, you still do not consider yourself full citizens," Ezio points out. "Do you?"

He regrets it a little later – he shouldn't have been so rash – but Claudia isn't the only one who had gotten a little tired of the way the mercenaries swagger about Monteriggioni. Their long reign over it has left marks on the town, on its people, and worse yet, on its finance – marks which Monteriggioni can no longer afford. And until Uncle Mario tells him otherwise, Ezio would spend his money however he saw best.

But, having roused the mercenaries, Ezio feels responsible for any fallout there might be, and so keeps an eye on them. It's almost a blessing that Monteriggioni doesn't have a tavern – another thing they could use, but there were reasons Ezio was hesitating in funding one. Without a tavern, the mercenaries turn to Fiore Mortale to drink away their frustrations and sorrows, the brothel often serving the same purpose as a tavern would – and Carlotta and her girls can handle drunken mercenaries.

But there are still times when even the loins of Fiore Mortale can't quench the passions of roused up men, and then they might turn on the people – and the church, which has become a symbol of their descent in importance.

The oncoming funeral and many frequent visitors at the church keep the mercenaries in check for now, but there'd be a time when they might catch Desmond alone, and what would happen then, Ezio doesn't know. Desmond is an Assassin, but he's one that's all but laid down his arms – should the mercenaries attack him, Ezio isn't sure he would protect himself. And should they attack someone else in Desmond's presence… Ezio isn't sure Desmond wouldn't kill them. There is still so much he doesn't know about Brother Desmond.

It's all an excellent excuse to stay close, at any rate – and watch from the side as Desmond discovered the flowers he'd left for the man to find. At the church, by the fountain, at Desmond's door, resting on his stoop, on his widow frame. They might be wild flowers only – Claudia would surely stab him if he touched the flowers in the garden – but every time Ezio makes sure to pick the most beautiful ones.

Desmond seems to teeter somewhere between confusion, despair and embarrassed pleasure, discovering them – and Ezio has no doubt he knows exactly who's leaving them for him. The first thing he does, finding a new one, is to check the rooftops – Ezio gets caught like this twice before he begins to put effort into hiding.

The first time Desmond's shoulders slump and he lifts a flower to his nose to smell it, Ezio knows he's winning the man over, slowly but steadily.

He also seems to be sending Desmond into prayer quite often too – and he'd feel some guilt about that, if he wasn't so proud of himself.

"Maria, Mother of God, give me strength," Desmond bemoans helplessly – but he keeps the flowers, too.

* * *

 

It's a cool, windy day when the funeral happens. Guido held Ortensia's Wake alone, with only Brother Desmond visiting to pray with him and whatnot – so the funeral Service itself ends up the more social event. Most of Monteriggioni is in attendance – including Ezio, Claudia and Maria, all in their Sunday best. Of course not all Monteriggioni fits in the church – it _is_ rather small – but it's packed to the brim and the square outside is full of people too, all having shown to not only to show respect to the passing of one of Monteriggioni's oldest citizens – but Monteriggioni's first church service and funeral in many, many years.

The church treasures had been returned to their original places, the cross, the candelabras, the paintings, the icons. A cloth covers the altar now and there's a new stand, upon which the coffin sits, having been received into the church the day before. There's incense burning somewhere, and there are flowers, too, two vases of them each side of the altar. Ezio recognizes each and every one of the blossoms – he'd picked them himself.

"Did you know Ortensia well, Claudia?" Ezio asks. He'd not been in the town enough to get to know all of its citizens intimately and isn't sure if he's ever met Guido's wife. He knew of her, of course – but isn't sure he'd met her more than in passing, before her last rites.

"Not well," Claudia murmurs. "I know Guido, he's a loud one, so everyone knows him. But Ortensia was more private, and she's been sickly for many years. Mother – please," she says, as Maria stares out of the window. "Look to the front, please."

Ezio puts a hand around Maria's back, to keep her attention from straying too far from the front of the church. She'd washed her hands at the stoup and done the sign of the cross alright, but the number of people around them seems to put her ill at ease. "It won't be long, Mother," he says gently. "We must show respect to the people. Please, just hold for us, alright?"

Whether she actually hears or not is hard to say, but she doesn't try to stray towards the window again.

Then, a hush falls over the church.

Brother Desmond has shaved a little more carefully than usual for the occasion – he'd washed his robes too, even repaired the hem a little, and he's pulled on vestments Ezio hadn't realised he owned. Though, going by their rough make, maybe he hadn't owned them before – maybe someone had made them for him. He also has a metal cross hanging from his neck over the robes and vestments, which he didn't have before, and Ezio recognizes the craftsmanship – it was made by the local blacksmith.

Desmond moves into the church at a stately pace, followed by Guido, who moves to stand by the front row, looking grey and drained. Desmond squeezes the old man's shoulder and then steps on the dais, beside the casket, to face them.

The last time Ezio had seen a funeral, it had been an illegal one, performed in secrecy after dark. Claudia had been there at his side, as had Mother – Claudia wept so wretchedly that Ezio couldn't hear half of what the nervous priest said, he was whispering so quietly. Mother hadn't wept. Ezio still isn't sure if she'd even breathed during the ceremony. The whole thing still seems like a distant, terrible dream.

Giovanni, Federico and Petruccio had been buried in unmarked graves in the hills near Florence, and no church bells had been rung for them.

Ezio swallowed and looks at his mother, her vacant expression as she stares at nothing. Taking her hand in his, he lifts his chin as Brother Desmond turns to look at the congregation.

"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti," he begins. "Amen."

There's a moment of silence.

Then Desmond speaks again. " _Do not stand at my grave and weep_ ," he recites to the quietly listening parishioners. " _I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry… I am not there; I did not die_."

Ezio's brows arch and he's not the only one.

"It's a poem I heard once, can't for the life of me remember who wrote it," Desmond says apologetically. "But I think it fits here. Ortensia Tuccerini was a strong woman who lived a long and full life, well known and well liked, and it will take more than death to erase her mark upon this world. For as long as those who loved her remember her and find joys in things that she loved, she will never be truly gone. Life might be brief, and death might end a journey, but memory lives on forever, and in memory… everyone is eternal."

It's not a most conventional funeral, Ezio thinks. Not that he has much experience – he regularly doesn't stick around long enough to watch people be buried. Desmond speaks at length – and so calmly – but he doesn't recite the Bible, doesn't pray much, aside from the basic prayers there's not much Latin at all. What he does instead is tell them to mourn and remember, and let the sorrow become a part of themselves.

"Of course, this close to the death, it's hard to remember a life lived," he says. "This close to the death it's hard to think of anything other than the loss – and that's alright. Someone was lost, someone is gone. Sadness is natural, and should be given its time…" his eyes stray towards Ezio and his family. "No matter how long it takes, or how quickly it passes… grief is important, too."

Ezio's breath catches.

"But today, we're gathered to lay Ortensia Tuccerini to rest," Desmond says, turning his eyes away. "Let us bow our heads in prayer. Our Father, who art in Heaven, please take this soul, gentle and strong, into your care, and show her peace everlasting…"

* * *

 

Ortensia is buried in Monteriggioni's old graveyard, where all the rest of the graves are decades old and older. A grave had been dug there, and though there wasn't a stone worker to make her a gravestone, someone had made a fine wooden cross to mark her resting place. After final prayers had been murmured and final goodbyes said, Guido takes the shovel and lays the first shovelfuls of dirt on his wife. Ezio has his turn on the shovel too, after Guido can't manage it – as does Brother Desmond… as does most everyone there, Claudia included.

"Requiescat in Pace, Ortensia," Desmond murmurs, once a mound stands where there was a hole. "Be at peace."

It's not the most perfect funeral service, probably. People linger at loose ends for a moment before beginning to wander off in ones and twos – Guido is among the first to leave, Stefano patting his back as he goes. Desmond stays to the very end, standing by the grave in his robes and vestments, a hand grasped around the cross at his neck.

"It was a… good ceremony," Claudia says, approaching the Brother. "Thank you."

"I suppose that's better than a bad one, at least," Desmond says, eying the grave before glancing up with a smile. "I just hope I didn't offend anyone's sensibilities, or… get anything wrong, or…" he trails away, swallowing.

"It was well done," Ezio assures him. "No one could have done better."

Desmond lets out a breath, which is almost a laugh. "Well, that's a lie, but I'll take it," he says with a sigh. "I suppose I should learn how to do this properly, if I'm to do something like this again," he murmurs. "Learn Latin and such."

"I could teach you," Ezio offers and winces as Claudia surreptitiously stomps on his foot. "Or, there are some books at the villa which might be of help – I think there might be a dictionary –"

"You are hopeless," Claudia mutters and turns to Desmond. "We'll offer what help we can, of course, but I thought it was beautiful. A little lacking in prayer, but… suitable, for Monteriggioni. Honesty, I don't think Latin could improve it – at least this way everyone could understand."

"Well, that's good, then," Desmond says, casting a look at Ezio. "Though if there's a dictionary, I wouldn't mind it."

Ezio looks at him and then tries not to grin. "I'd be happy to deliver it to you," he offers. "Maybe show you a word or two…"

Claudia sighs. "Alright," she says, giving up. "Thank you again, Brother Desmond, it was a lovely service. I think I will be taking Mother home now – come on, Mother, this way now –"

Maria doesn't budge, looking at Desmond. Claudia frowns a little and then looks up at Ezio and finally at Desmond, who turns towards them, lowering his hand from the cross.

"Yes, Maria?" Brother Desmond asks, his hands hidden under the vestments. "What is it? How can I help you?"

She looks at him for a moment, blinking slowly. Then she shakes her head and turns to Claudia, to leave. Claudia's shoulders slump a little and she gives Ezio and Desmond a tight, apologetic smile, before turning to lead Maria away.

Ezio hesitates and sighs. "I'm sorry. My mother hasn't spoken in years," he admits, looking at Desmond searchingly. "Do you know what happened to my family?"

Desmond bows his head a little and then moves away from Ortensia's grave. "I know," he says. "Do you want to… talk about it?"

Ezio casts him a look, and he's not sure what to do with the look of open empathy on the man's face – it's completely different from the looks of confusion, embarrassment and guilty pleasure Brother Desmond usually gives him. He looks like he understands, and – the embarrassment was easier to handle than that.

Ezio smiles, leaning in. "We could speak of it in private, Brother," he comments, pitching his voice low and suggestive. "I'm sure you could bring my sorrows _great_ comfort."

Desmond closes his eyes and sighs, shaking his head. "What do you want from me, Ezio?"

 _To see you in my bed,_ Ezio thinks, but the words die at his lips when Desmond opens his eyes again. They look weary – and a little bit resigned. For a moment Ezio can't say anything, managing a, "I…" before that too withers away. Desmond looks like he's _still_ expecting Ezio to hurt him, or chase him away.

That won't do at all.

Quickly Ezio glances around and then reaches out to take Desmond's hand, lifting it to press a kiss on his knuckles. "Come with me," he says and lowers Desmond's hand. "Please."

Desmond bows his head, looking at their hands. Then, with a slow exhale, he nods. "Alright," he whispers. "You lead the way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep" is a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware sexual content

Desmond can't really blame Ezio. It would be so much easier if he could, really, but he can't – he can't really even be angry at him. Ezio has no idea what he's actually doing to him, and it's just not in his nature to think of things like affairs in terms of potential consequences. To Ezio, pleasure is simple – and rarely involves emotion beyond joy. That, and maybe triumph. The guy did, for years, think of his trysts in terms of _conquests_.

Part of Desmond is a little flattered to have somehow joined the list of Ezio's would-be conquests. It's a pretty impressive company to be invited to, with the likes of Caterina Sforza and all. Though that was later than this – Ezio hasn't met her yet. Still, knowing the kinds of people that generally caught Ezio's eye, Desmond with his awkward attempts of blending in, his lies, his stupid monk robes – now, vestments too… he is flattered.

He's kind of dying on the inside too with each step – they all ring in his head like church bells, tolling his doom.

"Where are we going?" Desmond asks, as Ezio leads him away from the graveyard – but not towards the gates of the fortress. Ezio is leading him around it, and Desmond has an inkling as to where. He just didn't realise the entrance to the mines was open yet.

"A secret passage," Ezio says, and lifts a finger to his lips. "But please – keep it a secret. Security of Monteriggioni might very well rely upon your confidentiality."

"Alright," Desmond says and forces a smile. "I won't tell a soul."

There's no one on the road as Ezio leads him to the mine entrance, showing him the way with a little flair of threatrics, holding out his hand to help Desmond up the rough path and then using it as a leverage to pull him close. The dark funeral clothes and the cape he wears only make it look fancier – in the shadows of the mine entrance, it almost looks like he's older, wearing the Armour of Altaïr. Except he isn't.

Ezio is twenty one and young, and he doesn't know anything yet – doesn't know what's ahead, what could be and probably will be.

"This way," Ezio murmurs against Desmond's knuckles and draws him into the shadow.

It's a test, maybe, or some sort of Assassin version of a date – or maybe it's just Ezio, showing off for him. The mines aren't fully renovated, it looks like – but it's work that's underway and ongoing. The bridges that had been broken in Desmond's time are being rebuilt, and some of them have temporary rope bridges in their place, waiting for more permanent solutions. It all looks somehow secretive, though – like it was the work of only few men, working in the dark. And maybe it makes sense.

In hindsight, it makes sense. The mines were the back door to Monteriggioni – of course Ezio wouldn't advertise their reconstruction. But at the same time, of course Ezio, always thinking of others before anything else, would prioritise the evacuation route, as soon as he could. Secrecy and haste, that kind of seems like Ezio's main thing, and the protection of the community.

In either way, it takes some parkour to get around in the place.

"Can you climb?" Ezio asks, moving to a wall where ladder hadn't yet been built.

"In these clothes?" Desmond asks wryly. "I'll try my best."

Ezio grins, a little dirtily, and Desmond can just imagine what he's thinking. Ezio doesn't say anything though, just climbs a little of the wall and then stops to wait and see what Desmond would do.

Desmond eyes the wall, then looks down at his robes and the vestments. He draws a breath, trying to steel himself for embarrassment, and takes the wall with a few running steps.  Ezio watches, his brows arching, as Desmond catches up with him and passes him by – it's not quite a race to the top, but Ezio easily keeps up with him, as Desmond struggles to keep his footing with the hem getting in the way, and with his stupid slippers giving away under his feet.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you brought me here to dispose of my body without anyone noticing. Why are we here?" Desmond asks, as they make it to the top of the ledge – Ezio ahead of him.

"There is something I wish to show you," Ezio says and holds a hand out to him. "Here – let me help you."

With a shake of his head, Desmond accepts it and lets himself be pulled up. He probably shouldn't be surprised by how easily and smoothly Ezio uses the move to pull Desmond against himself, holding his hand a little too firmly and a little too far away to allow him perfect balance.

"Do you know that Monteriggioni used to be a sanctuary of Assassins?" Ezio asks, low, while his eyes stray from Desmond's eyes to his lips and jaw and neck.

"I know something about it, yeah," Desmond says, swallowing.

Ezio smiles, full of thrill, as his eyes follow the movement of Desmond's Adam's apple. "There is something here they left behind – I want to show it to you," he says. "There is an easier route, but… I did not tell my sister that you too were an Assassin," he admits. "And I fear if I do so now, she might actually do me harm, if we took the route through the villa."

"You didn't tell Lady Claudia?" Desmond asks, surprised.

"It was not my secret to tell, Brother Desmond," Ezio says, his fingers flexing at Desmond's waist. Then he pulls away. "Come, this way."

It's a weird mental vertigo, to go through the mines in this time, with layered memories on top. The future of Desmond doing the same with Lucy – something he remembers with a pain he thought by now he would've gotten over… and then another future, closer – Ezio's future of Monteriggioni's attack, when the Auditore were guiding the citizens to safety.

"These structures were built in secret by my great grandfather," Ezio says as they move on and come from the mines into the ruins under the town. "How he did it and where he got the money to do it, I haven't the slightest notion. Or how he could've ever kept the construction of a place this large a _secret_. To this day, no one knows of these ruins."

"It's impressive," Desmond comments. And it is – the ruins are impressive, especially knowing that they'd been built in secret. "What did he made them for?"

Ezio hesitates and then looks at him. "I think it was the temple of Assassins. Or, a place where they hid, at any rate, where they were trained, where they kept their treasures and knowledge," he admits and looks ahead – over the flooded ruins. "But like all things… it eventually fell into ruin and was abandoned."

Desmond glances at him, frowning a little. That's a sort of sentiment he's more accustomed to getting from much older versions of Ezio, not this young one. "That's sad," he comments, tentatively.

"You think so?" Ezio asks, looking at him. "Well, I might be wrong. Maybe no one ever used it at all – my great grandfather did many strange things, from what I've been able to tell."

Desmond hesitates. It's interesting – he hadn't thought of Ezio's family history for a long time, but… "Why did you bring me here, Ezio?"

"To show you that this place belongs to Assassins. Monteriggioni's very foundations are built on the work of Assassins," Ezio says and turns to him. "And you are an Assassin, yes?"

Desmond presses his lips together, hesitant.

"Sometimes, this life seems so strange and so lonely," Ezio says, watching him. "You have done the work of an Assassin, haven't you? I can see it on you," he murmurs and when Desmond turns to look away, increasingly awkward, Ezio puts a hand on his chin and lifts his face. "It's terribly lonely, is it not, out there in the shadows, alone…"

Desmond swallows, his voice caught in his throat.

"You forget that you are not alone," Ezio murmurs. "That there are others and that there have been others. Before I found this place," he looks up and motions around them, "I thought I was alone. But I am not – there is Monteriggioni and all who live within her walls, and who have lived here. Their _memories_ ," he says, squeezing Desmond's hand, "live here."

Well. Desmond blinks at nothing, a little thrown by it all, not sure what Ezio is getting at here. "It's… comforting to know you were listening to the sermon," he says, his throat dry.

"It was beautiful," Ezio says, leaning in a little. "But you speak of memory, and of lives lived, and refuse to live one yourself."

"Um…"

"We have welcomed you in Monteriggioni with open arms – you belong here, Brother. There is a place for you here, now more than ever," Ezio says and leans in while Desmond tries not to squirm, Ezio's fingers still on his chin. "Why are you still so afraid?"

Really, the guy has no idea, does he? Desmond stares at him a little helplessly and, good God, he can't say it. Hell, he can't actually say _anything_. All he can do is shake his head, because, fuck, he's not afraid. He's…

Ezio's oh so sincere expression turns into a warm smile. "Why restrain yourself?" he murmurs imploringly, stroking Desmond's cheek with the back of his fingers, following the line of his cheekbone. "Have you made vows, is that it? Have you promised yourself to God? Or is there someone waiting for you, for whom you have given your word?"

Desmond swallows.

"I think not," Ezio decides, and his thumb brushes over Desmond's lips. "It's not guilt I see, only fear. For which there is no cause, at all," he says, so earnest and genuine. "I would not hurt you, Desmond."

It would be so much easier, if he could just deny the guy, be angry with him, even _frustrated_ , anything. But Ezio is impossible to hate, because he _is_ earnest and he _is_ genuine – even if it's only on a surface level, it's all true. Ezio wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't want to, that's the furthest thing from his intention.

And he's right too, because Desmond is lonely, so fucking _lonely_ that it steals his breath away half of the nights he tries and fails to sleep, because he misses people who haven't even been born yet. He's all by his fucking self, and there's no one there – and he doesn't even know why or how or what for he is here, or if there is even a reason at all, and…

Christ almighty, Ezio's hand is so warm, and Desmond can't remember the last time someone touched him like this. Before this time, before Abstergo – months and years and lifetimes ago.. Desmond draws a shaking breath, and his shoulders slump as he leans into the fingers on his cheek, still unable to say a damn word.

Ezio's eyes are warm, understanding – eager. "Let me show you," he whispers. "Let me show you I will not hurt you – I will only bring you enjoyment and happiness."

No, he wouldn't – but when Ezio's reaches up for him, Desmond leans into it anyway.

There's water dripping somewhere in the distance – it echoes off the irregular walls of the ruins, half collapsed, and it seems to grow louder, oppressive. There's no blood pounding in Desmond's ears, no sounds, Ezio is remarkably quiet, not even his clothes making a sound. The whole thing is so silent, it feels unreal – it's almost like suddenly he's gone deaf and blind and senseless.

All there is, is touch.

The press of Ezio's warm, full lips against his own, the wet touch of his tongue, teasing at the entrance, tasting him. The hand on his cheek, the other around his neck, the weight of it as Ezio pulls him towards him. The warmth of his body, seeping through their clothing as Ezio presses closer, closer, right up against him, kissing him, kissing him, kissing him.

It seems to go on forever, one kiss moving onto the next – Ezio moves into him, pushing and pulling and curiously trying all angles. Desmond more lets him than participates, trying to breathe through it, trying to make sense of it. It's so slow, so unhurried – he would've expected Ezio already to trip him to the floor, but he hasn't.

Slowly Desmond feels himself relax under the rub of Ezio's palm at his back and the fingers, stroking his hair. Ezio eases him into compliance, still not making a sound, not even a hum, and – and it feels off, somehow, how quiet it is. Ezio isn't usually quiet.

It makes it feel like a half formed simulation more than reality. Like any moment now the Animus would whisk him away, reconstruct the world, make everything new.

"Say something," Desmond begs wetly against his lips, gasping, confused.

"Oh?" Ezio murmurs, and smiles. "If it is words you want, I will give them to you. But first, kiss me."

"But – I _am_ –"

"No, Brother – _kiss me_."

Desmond gasps for a breath, as suddenly noise and scent and feeling and all the things his body had somehow blocked out in favour of touch collapse on him, and everything becomes urgent. Ezio has his face tilted up, his lips parted, wet, redder than before. His chin is freshly shaven and his skin clear – his eyes low-lidded and heated. With a hint of a smile – smug, anticipant, joyful, all that and more – he waits with all the self-confidence of a young man.

He's beautiful.

Desmond feels like something centuries old coming to life, as he takes Ezio's face between his hands, and kisses him. It's nothing like the teasing brush of Ezio's mouth on his, so careful and teasing – Desmond is far too desperate for that. He grips at Ezio and drinks his lips, swallowing the sudden, surprised groan that slips free from Ezio's throat as Desmond leans over him and forces his back to bend.

Then Ezio throws his arms around his neck and answers in kind, his nose pressing against Desmond's cheek as he pushes closer. There's a push and pull for a moment as they try and find their footing – and Desmond's knee ends up between Ezio's thighs, and without hesitation or shame, Ezio gyrates his hips against it, rubbing himself against Desmond's hip.

Letting out a gasp, Desmond grips at Ezio's thigh and pulls him closer.

Ezio throws his head back with a sigh. "There you are," he groans, victorious, and ruts against him. "There you are, my Brother – _ah_ –"

Desmond ducks his head, pressing it against Ezio's shoulder, shivers running up and down his spine as Ezio moans without shame, his whole body undulating in Desmond's arms. Desmond doesn't even know when he got his arms around Ezio, but now that they are he can't stop touching – Ezio's suddenly gone from a wistful memory into flesh and bone, and Desmond wants to – he has to –

They kiss again, Ezio smiling and humming and moaning louder – the bastard noticed it's having an effect, he's going to abuse that now, isn't he, he's going to use it at every opportunity – "Here," he murmurs in Desmond's ear, so low that he sounds almost like someone else – someone older. His cape goes fluttering down and onto the rough floor of the half-broken bridge. "Now, open my doublet…"

Desmond tears into his clothes with shaking hands, easing buttons and fastenings open while Ezio still rubs his hips against Desmond, leaving little of his reaction to imagination. The dark doublet follows the cape, and then the shirt goes after it, until Ezio is shirtless and Desmond is touching bare skin.

And Lord, he doesn't know how he's ever going to stop touching it.

Ezio leans back, laughing as Desmond strokes his skin desperately – Ezio makes a show of it, makes a show of everything, trusting his weight in Desmond's hands while he arches his body back, letting him see every line of it until the only contact is under their belts and getting more urgent by the second.

Desmond looks at his body, desperate – Ezio's still so untouched, no scars yet, the chest hair is still completely black and nowhere near as thick as it gets later on. His skin is fucking _pure_ , not having taken any of the damage it would take on, later in life.

Desmond's lungs freeze up as he touches Ezio's stomach, where blades haven't yet done any damage. It's all so smooth, so soft over hard muscle – fuck, Ezio's skin feels almost _vulnerable_ like this, like Desmond could do damage with just his fingernails and leave permanent marks.

"Brother?" Ezio asks, sensing him tensing, and Desmond looks up at him. His chin is hairless, his eyes bright with pleasure but confused.

"Christ," Desmond whispers.

He'd forgotten, too busy being worried about himself, who Ezio was. Or rather, who he _isn't_ , yet. This isn't Mentor Auditore, hell, Ezio isn't even a fully initiated Assassin yet – he doesn't know anything about the Pieces of Eden yet, or the prophecy, or what kind of life he would end up leading, under the title of a Prophet. Desmond's Prophet.

"I," Desmond says, and Ezio drags him down and into the kiss, thrusting his hips against him, groaning.

"You can have this," Ezio growls, while Desmond pants for a breath, after. "Leave behind your restraints. Your doubts and fears. They have no place here."

"I shouldn't," Desmond gasps, but he's still trying to follow his lips as he pulls away. "Ezio, Christ, please –"

"Yes, you should, yes," Ezio says hotly. "You want me, I can see you – so have me, now, have all of me. Have no shame for it."

Desmond hesitates, staring at him, wide eyed.

"You do want me," Ezio says and arches his body, undulating against him. "Don't you?"

Desmond moans, and reaches to kiss him, giving in.

Everything grows very hot, very fast. Ezio drags his hands down from Desmond's head, down his chest and over the vestments, over the cross, over his robes. While Desmond tries to pick his way through the confused haze of lust, Ezio begins dragging the hem of his robes up, palming his bare thigh eagerly and following it up under the hem. His palm is hot enough to make Desmond shiver, to make him moan.

It takes the guy no time at all to find his way into Desmond's underwear, and get his warm, calloused palm around his dick. "Oh, God," Desmond gasps. "Ezio –"

"Yes," Ezio breathes, pushing close and stroking him firmly. "Yes, good. Look at me, only me, forget everything else but me – only feel _this_ –" his thumb presses under the head, firm and insistent, "and nothing else."

Desmond shakes his head, his hips thrusting on their own into Ezio's hand, and he can't think. "Ezio," he begs, drunk with emotion and tries to bring him close.

"Yes," Ezio says, and pushes him towards the wall, tugging Desmond's robes out of the way and skilfully manoeuvring himself between Desmond's thighs. "Yes," he says, pushing his hips and pulling at Desmond's thigh with his free hand until Desmond bends his knees a little, giving him space, " _Yes_ ," he says, a third time, then tears open the fastenings of his breeches.

There's too much cloth in the way – all Desmond can see is Ezio's bare chest, his shoulders, hair trailing over his skin, all of him made pale by the darkness. He can't see what he does, but he can _feel_ it – Ezio opens his palm, holding it against Desmond's cock, keeping it in place, and then -

Breath escapes Desmond, sharply, as Ezio takes him by the hip and thrusts against him, hard and precise. Between them, his hand clenches around both of them, pinning them together tightly, and without giving Desmond a moment to breathe, Ezio begins to move.

It's not very graceful, it's not anything like gentle. The wall at Desmond's back is wet and cold and there are stones digging into his back, as Ezio proceeds to all but fuck him against it, moving against him and rocking him into the stones. Desmond gasps, suddenly unable to draw a full breath, and tries to bring Ezio closer, kissing his face desperately. The whole thing almost hurts.

"Touch me," Ezio urges him between thrusts, breathing hotly against his chin, his hips flexing, his whole body tense and tight. "Touch me, Desmond, come now –"

So Desmond touches him, shaky and desperate and reverent. His skin is slippery with the sheen of sweat now, Desmond's fingers leave marks on it, drawing lines on it – it makes him frantic for a taste, so he gets it.

He more feels and than hears the groan Ezio releases, as Desmond mouths at his throat, dragging his hands up and down the long muscles of Ezio's back, feeling them flex and work as he shoves his hips into Desmond, trying to fuck him through the wall. Desmond himself still has all his clothes, all his stupid robes and vestments, he's drowning in fabric – between them, the cross around his neck hangs over Ezio's chest, dark metal against bare skin, and –

It really shouldn't be as good as it is, but it is, it _is_ , fuck it's so good, the flex of Ezio's hips against his own, the relentless, insistent motion, the sound and smell and the feel of Ezio's glorious body – so good, fucking _divine_ –

"Ah," Desmond breathes against his neck in the rhythm of their rocking, as Ezio's hand tightens around them, slippery with precum and almost bruising, "Ah, ah, _ah_ –"

"Yes," Ezio groans. "Yes, ah, _yes_."

Desmond gets his hand on Ezio's ass under the breeches and hose and drinks Ezio's surprised gasp, greedily gripping as the muscle under his hand flexes. His other hand holds onto the back of Ezio's shoulder for leverage, as Ezio tugs at his waist to meet his trusts. Between them, Ezio's hand strokes, slick and too damn tight, in time of the thrusts, and at every proper push he lets out a grunt which is going to haunt Desmond's dreams, and fuck, _fuck_ –

Ezio's thrusts grow urgent, rapid, Desmond is going to get bruises from the wall at his back and he barely cares. He leans his head back, panting, and Ezio's last shoves against him are bruisingly hard, hard enough to make his footing slip, before the Assassin's movements begin stuttering and there's a burst of wet slickness between them, Ezio's whole body tensing.

Ezio's orgasm isn't long, but he drags it out with slow, languid movements against Desmond, who drinks the flex and tension of his body desperately, grasping at the straws of his own release, but not quite there yet.

Laughing with pure joy of life, Ezio leans back, his whole body aglow with pleasure. Desmond strokes at his sides and chest, needy and urgent, and with a smile Ezio rubs his whole body against him – and then goes down on his knees, pushing Desmond's now soiled robes out of the way.

Whether Ezio hesitates at all, Desmond can't tell – there's hand around him, another gripping gently at his balls, and Ezio gets one wet, messy lick from root to the crown before Desmond is lost.

Ezio chuckles, his lips wet and smiling against Desmond's skin while he's holding him up with one arm and stroking him through the shudders with the other. Desmond gasps at the ceiling of the ruins, his body arching, and if it hadn't been for Ezio, he would've collapsed.

"There you are," Ezio says, rising up and pressing against him. "There you are," he murmurs, lower, as Desmond pants wordlessly at him.

Desmond stares at him, not sure if he's despairing or overjoyed. It all feels kind of the same right now. "Here I am," he says shakily and, smiling, Ezio kisses him again. Desmond leans into it, desperate to postpone the aftermath, whatever it would be. He doubts it would be pretty.

For now, here they are.

Here they are.


	10. Chapter 10

Ezio cannot settle and he cannot say why. By all rights, he should be sated, his fervour quelled and his mind calm – but at the end of the day he finds himself woken from uneasy dreams with uneasy heart and the feel of tasks completed poorly and of mistakes made.

His room seems cold, that night, cold and all too quiet as he rouses from it to splash water on his face. The dreams still whirl in his mind – half remembered and confused, memories blended with fantasy. He thinks he dreamed of his father and brothers – and also of himself, as an older man, dissatisfied and hard and hiding it the best he could, still in body but shaking at the core.

Sighing, Ezio sits by the window, watching the moonlight wash over Monteriggioni. The town is calm, quiet, lit by a few windows where the occupant still had a candle or a fire burning – a few torches out in the streets, marking the way towards Fiore Mortale. Her windows are still fully alight, of course, and would be until early hours. Even a funeral would not quell the passions of some – Ezio himself is a somewhat shameful testament to that.

He thinks… he does feel a little shame. Not enough for regret – Brother Desmond, Father Desmond, whichever he is now, he'd been a willing, eager, _fervent_ participant and had reached for him with hunger and desperation that had surprised Ezio. He has nothing to regret in their passions, crude though they had ended up being, in the ruins. And yet, for some reason he cannot shake the feeling of having done something… wrong.

Must be the timing. He should have been more patient, not pushed for it so soon after the funeral. True man of cloth or not, Desmond obviously is a spiritual man of some nature, and the timing was borderline sacrilegious. Ezio should have waited, not pressed for advance – but Desmond had looked at him so _sadly_ …

Running a hand over his hair, Ezio stares at the moonlight and then turns his eyes away, to the shadows of his room. It's not only the… tryst with Brother Desmond that has him uneasy. It's only the release of a few days' distractions, which now leave him with the revelation he had already realised and then had wilfully turned his eyes from. Now they plague his dreams, again.

There is a stack of empty canvases in the corner, waiting for him – they're so white that they seem to shine in the darkness, ethereal and somehow forbidding.

Ezio looks away, staring at nothing for a moment, turning his thoughts to Desmond and trying to sate the unease there, in the memory of his desperate touch and the sound of his voice. Rough and crude though it had been, it was also greatly gratifying, on multiple levels. And yet, now he can't recall if Brother Desmond even smiled at him. Had he? They'd kissed, they'd made love – but had Desmond smiled?

Quietly Ezio rises to his feet, and with a stretch walks over to the cabinet by the door, where a pitcher of wine still sits, warm and badly aired, but still good. He pours, drinks the first swallow there, by the door, and then refills the glass and walks to the canvases, crouching to examine them. It was some time ago when he primed them, but time has not done them ill, aside from adding a layer of dust on top.

Ezio brushes the dust away, sitting on the floor, eying the canvases. Then he looks up, to the paintings already hung on his wall – three of them. Uberto Alberti was his first true painting. The next was Vieri de Pazzi – the last he'd painted was Francesco, almost two years ago now.

Ezio had begun painting in desperation, early in their new lives in Monteriggioni, while Uncle Mario was training him and persuading him to become an Assassin, while Claudia was trying to coax Mother back to life, and Ezio… Ezio did not know what to do with the nightmares. It had been a mix of desperation and hope – and memory of all the paintings back home, back in Palazzo Auditore, and the joy Mother had gotten from them. The words, now seeming to have been spoken in another life, to another person…

 _"Self-expression is vital to understanding and enjoying life,"_ Maria had said. _"You should find an outlet."_

In the months that followed the execution and their fleeing of Florence, Ezio had, in the mix of grief and desperation, begun with the hope to show her, to bring her out of her fugue, to make everything right. Claudia had helped, she'd tried too, together they bought the materials, showed them to Maria, tried to draw her out of her head with art…

But in the end, it had come to nothing, for her. For him, painting did little to help him understand or enjoy life, and it was never an expression of himself. Only the people he killed. Ezio might try and paint a thousand flowers and dozen beautiful sceneries, and they would always come out as terrible scratchings of a stumbling _child…_

But with people he killed, the people he most _hated_ … he could produce masterpieces. Murder made him an idiot savant of art.

Setting his glass down, Ezio crosses his legs and then reaches for the paints, checking them in their containers, checking the brushes, the thinners. He'd learned their make and use in Leonardo's shop by accident more than intent. He'd never told Leonardo, not after discovering the one subject he can paint. Nothing beautiful, nothing meaningful – just death and regret and rage.

It had worked for a Confession, though. For an excise of demons, release of nightmares. Not quite an absolution, but painting Uberto years ago had let him sleep again. Maybe… maybe painting the rest will let him sleep now.

Ezio takes a drink and then goes about preparing the paints, glancing between them and his canvas, choosing his palette. He would need reds for this…

* * *

 

The next few days, it rains. First a thin mist that makes everything damp and miserable, even indoors. Then a heavy, intermittent downpour for the next two days, which evicts even the more enthusiastic from the streets of Monteriggioni back indoors, leaving the streets empty. Ezio braves the rain a few times, but once there he is not sure what to do – to head to the church, to talk to Desmond, to… to…

He doesn't know.

"Miserable weather," Claudia comments as they drink heated wine in one of the sitting rooms, Ezio catching up with the finances of the town while Claudia reads some story. "I hope it lets off before tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?" Ezio asks.

She looks at him, blinking slowly. "Sunday," she says, plain. "Brother Desmond's service, remember?"

Ezio's fingers hesitate over the page and then he rests his hand in the middle of the pages, to stop them from turning on their own. "Right, of course. With the weather, I forgot."

She casts him a look and lifts her glass. "You've been quiet, these last few days," she comments. "Has the rain put a damper on your passions or did something happen?"

After their time in the tunnels, Ezio had escorted Desmond back into the town, bid him his respects and thanks and goodbyes at the church steps, and then he'd looked at Desmond's face – and seen regret. Desmond had nodded to him, bid him goodbye, and that was it.

Now the memory of the feel of him, smell of him, the quiet noises he'd gasped into Ezio's neck, they're tainted by a feeling Ezio is ill-suited to handle. He'd meant to follow through as per usual, as he always did, but then he had… not. Ezio prides himself with the good spirits he leaves his lovers in – prides himself in the knowledge that they start and part as friends.

He isn't sure what Desmond sees him as, now, but he doesn't think it's a friend.

"Ezio," Claudia says, sharper.

"Nothing, Sister, nothing happened," Ezio says, but the way she arches her brows tells him how poorly the lie is delivered. "Nothing that involves you," Ezio amends. "Or is in any way your concern."

"Oh, Ezio," she says, weary.

"Don't –" what, Ezio doesn't know. He can't tell what her tone means, she only sounds weary. It sounds like a sibling of pity, somehow, and there is nothing to pity him for. Or Desmond, for that matter – the man had enjoyed it. None of it was pitiful.

None of it was _regretful_.

"Don't," Ezio says firmly and leaves at that.

Claudia looks at him, resting her cheek on her fingers, taking him in – and miracle of miracles, she doesn't, shaking her head and sighing instead. "You've been painting again," she comments instead, nodding downward.

Ezio looks at his hands, stained with oil paint. "Yes," he says. "It's not quite finished, and once it is, it's not fit for display."

Claudia looks at him and he almost wishes she would mock him, like she did in the beginning – _what scantily clad lady is your muse this time, brother?_ But Claudia knows what he paints, she's seen his paintings of course, marvelled the detail in the portraits he'd made… she doesn't usually talk of it.

Sometimes, Ezio thinks his skill and aptitude for horrible things frightens her. Lord knows it frightens him.

"Have you thought of making a Confession?" Claudia asks. "Brother Desmond takes them well, I hear, and gives kind advice."

"I – don't think he would like to hear my Confessions," Ezio says with a wry smile. Though as an Assassin the man might very well understand, better than any ordinary priest would. "Maybe later – the church doesn't even have a confessional."

"He tends to take Confessions in his house, over a cup of tea," Claudia agrees, watching him. "From what I hear, it's very agreeable, very private."

Ezio hesitates, not sure if she is implying something or not – her tone is level, it gives nothing away, and her expression is placid. Claudia arches her brows, and a little defensively he demands, " _What_?"

"You're quiet," she says. "I don't like it."

"It's a sombre, rainy day, what do you expect? I cannot always play the clown for you," Ezio mutters and shakes his head, "Has there been any word of Uncle Mario yet?"

"No, he is still looking into things in San Gimignano, I believe – trying to figure out what the Templars there were planning," Claudia says, her eyes not leaving him. "There was a letter that came this morning – there is a tailor, thinking of moving into Monteriggioni, asking about accommodations and such."

"That's great news," Ezio says, with somewhat false enthusiasm. "Not a moment too soon, either. Where do they hail from?"

"Florence, I believe – a former apprentice of a tailor there, who's having some difficulty in establishing their own workshop," Claudia says. "I've sent inquiries on them, depending on what Paola has to say about him, I might welcome him."

"That's good news indeed," Ezio says, looking down to the books. "Anything on a potential cobbler, or a carpenter?"

"Nothing yet, but it's a good sign that someone is interested," Claudia says and finally looks away also, to the window. "Now if the rain lets out, we could go and inspect the old tailor shop, see if it is of any use. It has been closed for years, who knows what the state of it is."

Ezio hums in agreement, just as there's a clap of thunder outside, which makes the windows rattle and the rain whip against them, harder. He too looks at the windows, watching rain race down it. "The well will be full, if nothing else," he comments.

"Always a good thing," Claudia agrees. "What happened with Brother Desmond that has you so melancholy?"

"Nothing," Ezio says, feeling his jaw tense. "Nothing, Sister, that concerns you."

"If it affects him as badly as you, Ezio, it does," Claudia says. "The man is well liked and he has a Service tomorrow – if whatever happens affects him –"

"Actually," Ezio says and closes the record book firmly. "I believe I will be going to check out the tailor shop after all, it never hurts to be punctual about these things – this way you can write back to the tailor post haste and we might have a source of new clothes in town. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

"Ezio," Claudia says, sighing.

"Please, drink my wine for me," Ezio says as he heads for the door. "No use wasting it."

* * *

 

As if to shame him further, the rain seems to reach crescendo the moment he steps out, cool droplets coming down heavily and obscuring his vision. His clothes are soaked through in an instant.

Ezio is stubborn enough to not head back inside, however – instead he heads out in the rain, regretting only the lack of a hood. It would have kept his eyes clear and his face somewhat dry, at least.

Monteriggioni is different in the rain – it seems bigger, emptier, forbidding. In the full light of gentle sun on warmer days it's easy to forget that the fortress has its own bloody, grim history – in the rain, it seems to come revealed. Everything seems harder in the rain, as if some illusionary softness of light is worn away and the fortress shows its sharp edges, its harsh angles, its cool, indifferent stonework. The walls of Monteriggioni don't seem like protection, in the rain – they look more like a trap, enclosing around the unsuspecting town.

Ezio's anger and frustration is worn away too, as he finds himself cold and dejected with himself. He should've stayed inside – and he shouldn't have dismissed Claudia so. She only means well.

He heads to the tailor shop anyway, peering at the outside of it before making his way in. There is a key to the shop at the villa, which he had not remembered to take – so he picks the lock instead, and steps out of the rain into the cool, dry, and slightly musty smelling shop.

The place is empty. No hidden treasures here, not even so much as an abandoned spool of cloth, or a dress form – there is nothing. The shop is simply empty, bar from a countertop by the window and a couple of tables which are attached to the walls.

Ezio walks around in the shop, taking in the other rooms – the tailor had lived in, it seems, there is a room with a bed frame, though no mattress. It seems like a decent enough place to live, requiring only little repair and perhaps a good cleaning. Some of the walls could use a touch up, and likely the windows might need some fixing.

Sighing, he leans onto the counter in the cold, empty storeroom, and folds his arms. Well, this trip was a letdown. It took no more than a couple of minutes, and now what is he going to do? Head back, tail between his legs?

He should go to Fiore Mortale, enjoy a bath and a drink and some pleasures there… except he had not thought to grab his money pouch, and Carlotta is always very firm about credit. She would not take it even from him – or especially from him.

 _"This is how the vice of complacence and abuse of power forms,"_ she said, gentle, teaching him. _"This is still a place of business, dear Ezio. We owe you, yes, and we will pay our dues – but we will not favour you."_ He'd been a little disappointed, but there was a reason why Paola had recommended her, in the end. And should one man of power in Monteriggioni gain free favours, then why not others?

Ezio is not really feeling the urge to visit the place, at any rate. He feels too… disturbed.

"Jesus, Maria and Joseph," Ezio murmurs, running a hand over his face.

Having sex with Desmond was supposed to settle him, sate him – not fill him with this disquiet. And even if it had, he should've simply moved on from it now, it's been a few days already – why can't he think past those looks, so easy to dismiss in passion, and now all he can remember.

 _"I shouldn't,"_ Desmond said, like in _pain_ , and then begged him. That should be appealing, a forbidden thing that was made to bend, that should be _enchanting_. Despite his doubts and fears and reservations, Desmond had given into him – Ezio should be _proud_ to have made him lose his inhibitions.

Instead he feels like he hasn't in _years_.

Like he's sinned.

He's a murderer, an Assassin, his deeds have changed the course of entire cities, republics – Ezio has left behind a terrible trail of blood and death. Never mind other vices, he's never shied away from lust, from taboos, from the forbidden. He's no stranger to sodomy – which he had not even committed here. And yet it feels like he's done something unforgivable.

It's ridiculous.

Frustrated with himself and his circling thoughts, Ezio pushes away from the table, walks through the shop and to the door. It's still raining, and judging by the looks of the clouds, it will not let up any time soon. In the distance, the clouds rumble with thunder. An ironically fitting weather for his temper.

After a moment of hesitation, Ezio sets out into the rain – his steps leading west of the shop, towards a square with a fountain. It's already overflowing with water, spilling over the edges where the rain is washing over the stonework. Under his feet, the gaps between cobblestones gleam with water – here and there, there are puddles forming.

The lantern by the church door is still lit, looking dim and sad in the darkness of rain – but it's bright enough to catch his eye. He can't tell if it is welcoming or forbidding – guiding light or a warning sign. It makes him hesitate, while the rain continues to lash on him, and overhead lightning flashes.

But thought Ezio Auditore is many things... coward isn't one of them.

The church is empty – but there are candles lit there, burned mid point on the candelabras behind the altar. Desmond has been here today, despite the rain. Ezio takes in the candles, how much warmer they make everything seem.

Then he turns to the stoup, touches his fingers in the water there and makes the sign of the cross, murmuring, "By this Holy water, and by your precious blood, wash away all my sins, oh Lord," as if that will actually be anywhere enough to do anything to his sins. It's been years since he's made the attempt at even the slightest pretence of Confession – in that time, his list of sins has grown very long.

But it's Desmond's church – it would be rude, not to do it properly.

Glancing up at the painting of the Assumption of Maria, Ezio bows his head to her and then moves towards the front of the church, to the altar.

There's a rough vase, sitting on top of the altar cloth – in it, there is an assortment of dried flowers. Ezio knows those flowers. He picked them himself.

Swallowing, Ezio reaches a hand to test them – they're not dried perfectly and the flowers are no marvels of nature, just wildflowers and weeds that grew around the town and in the fields beyond it… but they would last. His gifts, his stupid attempts at wooing – Desmond had preserved them, and now had them on display at the church.

Quietly, Ezio kneels by the cushion laid before the altar, bowing his head and lifting his hands. He has no idea how to pray, outside the function and form that had been nailed into his memory by times of spying on churches and now so distant memories of having visited the Santa Maria del Fiore of Florence with his family. Their Mother had been keen on religious education – their Father, not so much. And since then…

In the end, Ezio can't really think of anything to say. He just kneels there, silent under the weight of his sins, wondering if there is even anyone out there, listening.

There is a creak of a hinge behind him, as the church door opens. By the sound of soft-soled slippers on the stones, Ezio knows who he is.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," Ezio says, before he can think better of it, and he can hear the way it makes Desmond hesitate, can hear the click of his throat as he swallows. So, Ezio continues,  "It has been… a very long time since my last Confession."

Desmond doesn't say anything at all, and for a long moment the only sound is the rain and distant thunder. The silence grows tense and oppressive until finally there is a sound of a door, closing again, muffling the sound of the rain. For a moment Ezio doesn't dare to breathe, wondering if Desmond had simply stepped out again, left him alone – but then there is that distinctive sound of slippers on stone, almost silent, as Desmond comes closer. A faint brush of fabric, a breath – then he's standing behind Ezio.

"These are my sins," Ezio says quietly. "Wrath. Lust. Pride. Gluttony too, probably, I would indulge in it more had I the time. Sloth, Greed and Envy I indulge on occasion too. I would give you details, but the list is so long."

Desmond is still quiet, standing behind him.

"I have killed more people than I can count. I think the number of people I have slept with is longer still," Ezio says. "I would give you names, but I don't know even a fraction of them – I would give you details, but it all blurs together. I only remember the most powerful. The ones that hurt the most. I'm not sure if naming them, or not naming them, makes any of it better."

Outside, the rain beats on the roof tiles, a constant low noise that fills every corner of the church.

"Honestly, I don't think my sins can be forgiven, there's too many of them now," Ezio admits, and he doesn't really feel that much regret about it. "But then, I don't believe in either Heaven or Hell. I've seen so many men of God lose faith, lately. I'm not sure God exists at all, anymore. Not sure He ever did. So, my unforgivable sins, what do they even matter – when there is no one to judge?"

Ezio draws a breath. "Why then can't I think of anything else?" he mutters and tilts his head a little, to look at Desmond over his shoulder. "Why do I feel like I have to repent?"

Desmond has his hood on, and it's dripping water on his shadowed face – he got soaked too, stepping into the rain. He shifts under Ezio's gaze, tucking his hands into his sleeves.

"I don't believe in sin, either," he admits quietly. "Not as a thing you need to beg forgiveness from Heaven or from God, or from a priest – I don't think that's the point of this. Of course forgiveness is nice, but… what does it matter, coming from me? I don't care about your sins, Ezio, and I don't think God or Heaven does either. But… you do."

Ezio frowns, confused. "I – what?" he asks.

"It's called regret," Desmond says and moves past him, to step on the dais where Ezio is kneeling, and moving to the other side of the altar. "And doubt and qualm and hesitation and unease and all the other human emotions that give people… mental distress."

Ezio stares at him, not sure how to take it. "Perhaps it is," he says, warily, not sure how to answer, not sure what to expect. Even if Desmond gave him penitence, and it doesn't sound at all like he will, what would that change?

Desmond doesn't look at him – he's looking at the flowers. "Where I come from, we have this… science. Medicine, I guess," he says. "Called psychiatry. It's kind of like the Sacrament of Reconciliation – you go to a professional, tell them what weighs on your mind, what gives you hard time, what up here," he motions at his head, "is holding you back. Not just doubts, but sicknesses of the mind, mental ailments, that sort of thing. And with luck, with hard work… the professional helps you solve your issues. Priests and Confessions I guess are a version of that service – that's kind of how I've approached this. Not as a way to air people's flaws and sins and dish out punishments – but a way to offer… healing."

Ezio lowers hands, still folded together in prayer, staring at him.

Desmond lets out a breath, almost a chuckle, and shakes his head. "So," he says. "I don't know what to do with your sins, Ezio. But if you tell me what's troubling you, maybe I can… help you by talking you through that."

As Ezio stares at him, astonished, Desmond leans on the altar. "Are you sorry about the people you killed? Do you wish you hadn't?"

"Not really," Ezio admits, his voice quiet. "Each and every one of them deserved it."

Desmond nods, his face still shadowed – an illusion of privacy, that. It's like speaking with a man without face. "Then it's the aftermath. They deserved it – but I guess _you_ didn't get what you deserved. Did you?"

"I –" Ezio starts and then stops, and leans back a little, settling his weight on his still wet and slightly muddy heels, staring at him. "I'm not sure I deserved anything," he says then. "I always knew it would never change anything, but – but I thought… I thought…"

"You thought you'd feel peace, at the end of it," Desmond says.

Ezio's shoulders slump. "You've killed someone in revenge, haven't you?"

Desmond doesn't answer, folding his arms and bowing his head. "You're trying to find personal gratification in the act of destruction," he says then. "Like removing something from the world might _add_ something, but that's not how it works. Death is just death – it doesn't add anything, all it does it create hollow space, for new things to flow into the space the now dead person once occupied."

"So there's no… no peace in death," Ezio murmurs.

"Of course there is," Desmond says and sighs. "I killed someone I felt a sort of vengeance towards. His name was Vidic, and he'd done… terrible things to me and to my predecessors. I wanted to kill him. "

"And you did," Ezio guesses.

"I did. But not because I wanted to – I didn't go after him to kill him, there were… other reasons at the time. He held someone dear to me hostage, I had to save them," Desmond says and shrugs. "I did kill Vidic though – but not because I wanted vengeance. I did, but that wasn't the reason. I killed him because the world is a better place without him."

Ezio bows his head a little, thinking. "The world is a better place without the people I killed, too," he says quietly.

"But nothing has changed for you," Desmond finishes for him. "You still feel the same you did before. Nothing's changed."

Ezio lets out a, "Tch," and runs a hand over his face. "I can see why you don't do proper Confessions, Brother, you're terrible at them," he says. "This doesn't help me."

"I'm not even trying to – yet," Desmond says plainly. "That's the flaw of Confession, I think – you admit your guilt, you get your penitence, and then you think everything's okay. Human mind doesn't work that way – these things take time. What else is weighing on your mind, Ezio?"

Ezio looks at him through his fingers. "I thought you didn't care for airing of sins?"

"First step in dealing with any problem is admitting you have one," the other Assassin answers, looking away. "So what is it?"

For a moment Ezio keeps his peace, taking him in. Desmond's face is still more in shadow than in light, and it's hard to see his expression. There is a tension there, though – he's uneasy. "You," Ezio says.

Desmond's eyes turn to him, but his expression doesn't change. He's restraining his expression – restraining everything. Holding himself back worse than before.

"I cannot get my mind off you," Ezio admits slowly, watching him with some confusion and then standing up. "All I can think is back to our time in the ruins, I keep turning it over in my mind with regret, shamed for how I went about it, and now you're… different." And he is, he seems only more reserved – but also more confident. Tense and yet somehow more at ease.

Desmond meets his eyes, expressionless. "I figured you got what you wanted," he says, his voice utterly lacking emotion. "And I don't have to worry about it anymore."

Ezio moves close, not daring to take his eyes off him. "And if I'm not?" he asks, quiet and suddenly urgent. "What if I am _not_ done with you?"

Desmond's eyelids flicker and he looks down, shaking his head. "Damn it, Ezio," he murmurs and sighs. "Then I guess both of us have a problem, don't we?"

Outside, a thunderclap makes the rafters shudder.


	11. Chapter 11

Claudia misses the time she could still be a child. When her biggest concern in life was the opinion of her friends and what little trinket Duccio might give her, how she would receive it, what she would say to him. She plotted out every interaction with him like they were chapters in a great story, every word and gesture pre-meditated for utmost precision so that when she shared the details with her friends, she would show to advantage – a maiden caught in a great love story, relentlessly pursued by her promised, but trying to remain chaste.

It's been three years, she'd been promised to Duccio for a good time, and now she can't even remember his face. Nor can she recall the faces of her friends, or most of their names, can't for the life of her think what they might be doing now. Are they married? Are they engaged to be wed? Have they grown up at all or are they still the tittering, scheming cavalcade of smug girls who thought the world was just waiting to wrap itself around their little fingers? So young, so pretty, so hopelessly, completely vapid.

Not that Claudia is old, she's not yet twenty. But in the last three years, she's aged trice the amount, it feels like – her childhood died at the noose in Florence, and she wonders, bitterly, how utterly she took it for granted. That ease of living, the security, the carelessness of it all – not having to worry about anything, for Father and Mother provided and all was right in the world.

Sometimes she thinks Ezio might cling to his, still. Sometimes she looks at him and his antics, takes in his _exploits,_ and he seems _so_ childish. It's like a mockery of all the things she'd lost and couldn't get back – how he could just shed the concerns that plague her day and night and become that silly boy climbing the buildings of Florence again, throw away all the darkness and all the loss and just enjoy life without restraint, without shame.

Objectively she knows that's not it. Ezio isn't a child anymore – he's a pretender. He only throws his hood back occasionally, and when he gives himself into his vices, it only appears reckless. He can't shake their past any better than she can – but he pretends much better. And part of Claudia detests him for it, bitterly. Even if it is fake… for a night, for a few hours, he might shed some of his burdens and become a being of pure physical gratification.

Claudia can't manage it. She'd tried, but… she can't manage it, she cannot shed the constant, overwhelming _fear_ for her family, for her Mother, for Ezio, Uncle Mario, for Monteriggioni. It's like an ever present noise in her life, always ringing in the back of her mind. Where is Ezio, where is Uncle Mario, where is Mother, what is the state of their coffers, what is the state of their people – and always… always her mind comes back to it, catches on it like it's a loose nail on a wooden plank under her feet, tearing at the hem of her skirts.

Father is dead. She'd never see Federico again. Petruccio will never ever grow up. They'd lost so much. They'd lost everything.

Yes, Claudia resents that Ezio can, occasionally, just for a moment… forget. She would never change him, she loves him, but sometimes she's just so bitter – so lonely. His trysts are momentary and hollow, but for a moment they're real enough to make some difference – and she has… nothing. She can't manage it.

Sometimes, she's not sure how to manage getting out of bed in the morning.

"Good morning, Lady Claudia," Bianca says, pulling back the curtains, letting light into her room. "It is sunrise, you told me to wake you up with the sun. I have your morning tea ready."

Claudia presses her face into the pillows and for a moment considers sending her away and forgetting that she'd ever woken up. "Thank you, Bianca. How is Mother?"

"Still asleep," Bianca says, coming forward to fuss with her morning robe, laying it out for her, and the slippers. "She had a good night, Gabriela told me, she told Madonna Maria some stories and tells me she was listening to it. Here, your slippers."

Claudia forces herself to sit up, tugging at her hair and sighing. "Thank you. Please – lay out our Sunday clothes. Is Ezio in?"

"Last I heard, yes, he's in his room," Bianca says. "Should I go wake him?"

"No, let him sleep… if he actually is sleeping," Claudia mutters, running a hand over her eyes and then turning to ease her feet into the slippers. "Do you know when he came in?"

"Not much after you turned in," Bianca says, holding the slippers for her and then picking the morning robe. "We drew and heated some water for him, he was all soaked through – he'd catch his death of cold that way. Here we are," she pats Claudia's shoulders, once the robe is on. "The tea is by the table over there."

"Thank you," Claudia says and makes her way over, while Bianca begins to make her bed in brisk, adjusted motions. "What was Ezio's mood, when he came back?" Claudia asks, pouring the tea for herself.

"Mood, Lady Claudia?"

"Yes, mood. He wasn't in the best spirits when he headed out, and I don't think the rain would've improved them much," Claudia mutters and glances at her. "If you drew a bath for him, you must've talked to him. Did he seem… irritated?"

"No, not at all," Bianca says, shaking her head and tugging the covers straight. "Only very thoughtful."

"Thoughtful," Claudia repeats dubiously.

"Thoughtful," Bianca agrees and casts her a glance. "And it did not seem like he'd visited Fiore Mortale, either," she adds. "It wasn't that sort of thoughtful."

"Hmm," Claudia answers, tugging the robe shut at the front with one hand and lifting her tea with the other, thinking. Ezio had been in a mood for days, so _thoughtful_ could mean many things. That he'd not aimed for his favourite place of distraction from bad mood, though… That could mean many things, and she's not sure any of them are good.

Whatever had happened with Brother Desmond, it obviously hadn't had the result Ezio had hoped. And it couldn't be something as simple as rejection or bad sex, she knew how Ezio reacted to both of those scenarios – this was something more complicated. This, she has a bad feeling… has to do with actual _emotions_.

And Ezio is _terrible_ at such things. She thinks back to his reaction to Cristina's engagement and marriage, and shudders.

"Here is your dress, Lady Claudia – I have also polished your shoes, though I cannot say it will do much, in this weather," Bianca says.

"Still raining, is it?" Claudia asks, distractedly.

"Not as much, but it rained all night – the streets are a little muddy," Bianca says. "Now is there anything else you need, before I go attend to Madonna Maria?"

Claudia shakes her head. "No, thank you – please make sure Mother dresses warmly," she says. "We do not want her to catch a cold, on top of everything else."

"No, we do not want that," Bianca agrees, curtsies, and then she's off, heading out to attend to Maria. Claudia glances after her and then leans back to finish her tea, thinking, thinking.

Whatever Ezio had done and whatever he was going to do now aside… she would need to talk with Brother Desmond, and see what she could do to mitigate the situation – and maybe even talk some sense into the poor man, to not humour her brother's lustful ways. Perhaps she might yet salvage whatever situation Ezio had caused, and maybe even without losing the closest thing to a priest they had in the town.

And if they would lose the man because of Ezio, then the sooner she knew it, the better. She could prepare for whatever fallout would follow and hopefully not turn the town against their family for having lost them their shepherd.

Closing her eyes, Claudia leans her head back and sighs.

She misses Florence so damn much, sometimes.

* * *

 

Ezio is quiet when he finally comes down for breakfast, dressed in his Sunday clothes as well. They fit him poorly, Claudia notices – he cannot close the front of his doublet fully, his chest and shoulders have grown too wide. A tailor really wouldn't be amiss, in the town.

"Morning," he says, distractedly, and sits down. "Claudia. Mother."

Claudia glances at Maria, present in body, but not quite in spirit. Nurse Gabriela is helping her eat, not quite feeding her by the spoonful, but urging her ever so often to "Have another bite, there you go, Maria – now, a bit of bread…"

"Morning, Brother," Claudia says. "How was the shop?"

"Hm?" Ezio answers, blinking. "Oh, yes – it looks very good. A little bit of cleaning and maybe some light retouching of the walls, and it will do well for anyone, I think," he says, waving a hand. "Honestly, I was surprised by how well preserved it was."

"That is good to hear." It shouldn't have taken him as long as it did, though – she'd gone to bed late, and Ezio had not come back yet then. He must've been gone an hour or two, at least. "Hope you didn't get cold in the rain," Claudia says, her tone mild.

"It's was fine, Bianca and Marco helped me to draw a bath," Ezio says. "We have good servants here."

"That we do."

It's a hollow chit chat and quickly peters off into silence, as Ezio begins to eat and Claudia finishes her own breakfast, picking it apart into smallest pieces until there is nothing left. She ends up staring out of the window, where the day dawns gloomy and cloudy, though it doesn't seem to be rainy anymore. Miserable weather. She can't wait until it's summer again.

Gabriela is just about finished feeding Maria her breakfast, praising her with, "Well done, Maria, well done indeed – now drink this, and you will be all done," when outside a bell begins to ring.

Claudia's heart skips beat before the instinctive fear settles. It's not an alarm bell, the tone is different – and the church bell has been rung a few times now, to test it, and at Ortensia's funeral, of course.

"Time to go then," Claudia says and stands up. "Thank you, Gabriela – Mother, come, join me…"

Maria is distracted, but pliable as always, as Claudia winds her arm into hers and looks to Ezio, who is hastily wiping his mouth and getting up. Claudia considers him and then nods – he looks serviceable enough, and not like he's plotting something. "After you, Brother."

"You're cordial this morning, Sister," Ezio says warily.

Claudia casts him a look and scoffs. She's _worried_. "You were in a mood yesterday," she says. "I'd hate to make it worse."

He has the good sense to look guilty, at least. That's something. "I am sorry, I was… I was preoccupied."

"I did notice that. It's fine, Brother – now be preoccupied with opening the door, will you," Claudia says, sighing. "We don't want to miss the service."

There are many people making their way to the church, dressed as well as they can manage. They bid their good mornings and commiserate about the weather, telling her, "I will have my basement flooded again," and, "There's water coming through the roof," and, "Oh, the window, it's going to start growing mould and mushrooms again."

"You have mushrooms growing out of your window?" Ezio asks with interest.

"When it rains, yes, they pop right out of it. It's the wood of the window frame, Ser Ezio, it's so old and rotten, water seeps right in and then refuses to come out," Bastiano says, very pitiful, and very pointed. "I would fix the frame, had I but the money for it."

"I'm afraid that's going to have to be a concern for another time," Claudia says, apologetically but firmly. "It's time for the service now. I'm looking forward to Brother Desmond's homily, aren't you?"

Ezio gives her a look after they part ways with Bastiano, arching his brows. "He has mushrooms growing out of his window," he points out.

"And Valerie has mushrooms growing all over her attic, and Stefano has four leaks in his bedroom, and the Ricoveri could probably keep fish in their basement when it rains, but they don't complain of it," Claudia says. "Now that you're back, and the church was restored, every other citizen is turning to me for aid in house repairs – preferably, monetary aid. And if we help one, then we must help others, and that will be it for our treasury until you head out again."

"Ah," Ezio says and nothing else.

Brother Desmond is standing outside the church when they arrive, peering up at the rooftop. "… not even a drop," he's saying to Stefano. "It's not even particularly damp inside, and it looks like the tiles held against the worst downpour without any problem. I think the roof will hold."

"That is good news – and good morning to you, Brother Desmond," Claudia says, and the Brother tenses a little and turns to look at them, not having noticed them yet. His eyes shift to Ezio, and his jaw tenses.

Claudia looks between him and her brother, and smothers a sigh. _Shit_. So it's likely even worse than she assumed.

"Good morning to you all," Brother Desmond says, not quite wary, but certainly not as ease as he was, only a moment ago. "How did the villa fare against the storm?"

"Very well, but the roof was reinforced not too long ago," Claudia admits, a little guiltily – it had not been cheap and it had made her feel a bit of a scrub, to repair the villa's roof when so many others were in such a poor shape around the town… but there was no helping it. They couldn't put the town in order before their own house was in order, first. "It can take a decent beating now."

"That's good to hear," Brother Desmond says, somewhat reserved, and coughs. "Please, go ahead," he says then and motions to the church. "While there are seats left." With that said he turns, with a rather pointed quickness, to welcome others to the church.

Ezio says nothing during the exchange – now if he could stop _staring_ at Brother Desmond, Claudia might be able to give him the benefit of the doubt. It takes nudging at his side and her taking his arm to draw him away, finally, and even then he resists. "You are an embarrassment," Claudia mutters.

"What?" Ezio demands.

"Not in _public_ , Brother," she hisses and all but shoves him into the church, and towards the stoup. "Cleanse yourself – and your _mind_ ," she says. "You're in the house of the Lord – act like it."

He makes a face at her, but moves to the stoup, touching his fingers in the water and making the sign of the cross humbly enough, murmuring a prayer and then moving back to let her follow. Claudia rolls her eyes at him, and then ushers Maria forward, "Mother, go ahead."

It's a sad sort of gratification to watch her go through the motions, so perfect and still so distant, like a dance in a dream. "Amen," Maria murmurs, soundless, and Ezio takes her hand to lead her out of the way while Claudia takes her turn.

The people of Monteriggioni have left the front mostly clear, likely for their benefit, and they find the space there, by the window again. The church still has no pews or even benches, and everyone is standing, but no one seems to mind it much – and it does let more people fit in the church.

It again, like during Ortensia's funeral, fills to the brim.

Claudia settles Mother between herself and the window, holding her hand in hers to warm her cold fingers, as Maria's attention strays away again. Normally Claudia would try to keep her attention in the present, but this morning she doesn't have the energy to mind her – this morning she is not in the best temper herself, and none of this is helping.

Honestly, she would've preferred to spend the miserable grey day in bed, reading and pretending she didn't have to do any of this, maybe have a glass of wine and read an old epic from Uncle Mario's library. Ezio was allowed his pretences and distractions, after all, so why couldn't she afford it once in a while?

Claudia smothers the urge to scoff out loud and then looks up, as Brother Desmond closes the church doors and comes forward. The chatter of people all around them quiets down first to a murmur and then into the awkward silence of shuffled feet, clothing rustling, people coughing and breathing too loudly. The awkward loud silence of a church.

Brother Desmond comes around the altar, no Bible to read from, no notes, just empty hands and a humble robe. He'd kept the cross, though, she notes – it's only iron, but the blacksmith had made it as refined as he could, and it's almost beautiful. It fits Brother Desmond well, somehow.

The monk – or would be monk – clears his throat, looking at them. Then, drawing a breath, he begins, blessing them in Latin – the only Latin prayer he knows, Claudia suspects. It's not terribly good Latin either, it's obvious he doesn't speak the language very well – or at all – but the attempt is sincere.

It's obvious he honestly cares of doing a good job, which is enough to forgive him his failings.

Then he begins his homily. "God helps those who help themselves," Brother Desmond begins, looking over the church attendance, but not towards them. "In the last few days I have been struggling with a question, praying for an answer, praying for clarity – asking God to help me. And thought of that saying – that God helps those… who help themselves.

"I think there's a kernel of truth to it," Brother Desmond says, looking down. "God probably won't give us all the answers, or solve all our problems. What would even be the point in doing anything, if with just a prayer we could ask God to do it all for us? No, we have to do some of the work ourselves – most of it, really. We have to help ourselves.

"But we don't," he says. "Not just. We help each other – this church stands in testament to that. Just by helping myself I couldn't have fixed this church – I had help. Many people here helped me," he motions around them. "And the church was fixed a lot faster than it would've been, had I been working alone. That, I think, that is God's work. People, helping each other, for no gain, for no fame, no fortune. Just… because they can and they want to.

"But I've come to realise – to receive help… sometimes you have to accept you need it," Brother Desmond says this almost ruefully. "And then you have to ask for it. I'm not terribly good at that myself. I don't think I asked anyone to help with the church – I should have, but I didn't, because in my pride I thought I could do it by myself, and to ask help… would be to admit weakness. To humble yourself. And that can be hard."

He trails off, shaking his head and then looking up. "Would you join me in prayer?" he asks and of course, everyone does. "Our dear Father, in Heaven, please let us accept our failings, and our need for the aid of others – so that we, in turn, can help those around us in need…"

Claudia had never been one to be spiritually affected by sermons or mass – even the more grandiose ones, conducted completely in Latin and done with all the pomp and circumstance of great cathedrals. Brother Desmond isn't the most charismatic speaker either, his speeches don't rouse in her any overwhelming swell of emotion.

It's the sincerity that strikes her the most – the clear fact that, though his homily is a little awkward and lacks anything of scripture, and his prayers are all out of form… he means every word, and he means them for all of them – that he sincerely would like to see them accept help and offer help and be better neighbours and better people. Claudia doesn't think she could ask anyone for help, not in her position, but she thinks Brother Desmond would really want her to, for her sake.

It's a nice enough sentiment – if completely unrealistic.

The Service ends with most everyone seeming pleased by it – without the Sacrament of the Holy Communion, again, which is just as well. Likely Brother Desmond doesn't know how to perform it properly, and even if he did… where would he even get the bread and the wine?

What does happen, though, is an offertory. Not at Brother Desmond's behest, though – no, it's old Guido, who steps forward. He is carrying with him, along with a grimly determined expression, a beautiful dish of old china, which he carries through the murmuring church and places on the altar – and then, as they all watch, he adds a few coins to it.

"Guido," Brother Desmond says, awkward. "What are you doing?"

"To help those who need help – that's what's it about, helping people who need help," the old man says, nodding several times and ignoring the look of outright dismay Desmond gives him, before turning, tugging his hat back on, and then heading out.

The poor monk doesn't seem to have any idea what to think – and then, as people start to rise to add in their own alms, he looks downright alarmed. A queue forms to the collection plate.

Claudia hadn't even _thought_ to bring money and nearly panics at the sight of the line forming – judging by the look of it, most everyone is looking to donate something, and she, the mistress of Monteriggioni, has nothing to give. How cheap would she seem, ignoring the offertory, sneaking out without adding anything?

"Here," Ezio whispers, and presses something to her hand. "Mother – give me your hand. Hold this for a moment…"

Of course he has money with him. Thank _God_. "I will pay you back," Claudia murmurs quietly, closing her fingers around the coins without daring to look at what they are.

"Don't you dare," he says, and moves to join the queue.

It's a while before they reach it, and by that time, there is a respectable sum of small coins in it, copper and bronze mostly, a couple of smaller silver pieces. Ezio adds his silver coins, which makes Claudia wince a little – but it's not gold at least, so he has some sense left. Claudia's coins are similarly silver and she smothers a grimace, watching them fall on the collection of lesser coins. Would it be seen as them showing off their wealth?

Then Maria steps forward, eying the plate, looking at her hand, and then laying down a single golden Florin. She looks surprised and then pleased by it, making the sign of the cross and bowing her head – as if the appearance of the Florin in her hand was a miracle, and not Ezio being an idiot.

"Brother, for God's sake," Claudia mutters, sighing.

"Shush," Ezio answers, not very humbly at all, while nodding his head very pointedly to Desmond and smiling. Standing by the altar, the monk looks rather uncomfortable now, eying the plate like it's full of snakes and about to attack. Then Desmond looks up, and…

Seeing the expression of actual _grief_ he gives Ezio and how it makes Ezio's smile wither, Claudia makes her decision.

"Ezio, be a dear and take Mother home," she says, as they step back to let other people at the collection plate, speaking in tone which she hopes brooks no complaints.

"Claudia?" he says, wary.

"I have a business to attend in town," she says and looks at him. "Please."

Ezio doesn't seem best pleased by it, looking between her, Mother, and Desmond – obviously he intended to stay behind and do… whatever. That only strengthens Claudia's resolve, and she glares at her brother until he relents and sighs. "Very well," he says. "I'll see that she makes it home. I hope your business is… peaceable, Sister."

"I'll make sure it is," Claudia says firmly. "Thank you, Brother. I will see you later."

If nothing else, the rule of Monteriggioni has taught her something – the tone of command and dismissal. Ezio isn't happy to be persuaded by it, but he bends, taking Mother by hand and pressing a kiss to her cheek, murmuring. "Come, let's go have a walk, Mother. This way…"

Claudia looks after them until they are out of the church door and then she turns to look at Desmond, who is talking to the townspeople, giving them his thanks and his increasingly awkward blessings for their charity. He obviously hadn't intended this with his homily and doesn't know what to do with it now that he has it – which, clearly, only makes people all the more keen to donate.

Sincere humility, Claudia muses while leaning back against the wall under the church windows, seems to have a power of its own. Which, really, only makes her that much more keen to talk to him, alone. With any luck she might yet find a way to help _him_ – and through him, maybe… maybe she could help her own brother, too.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware sexual content in second half of the chapter

Desmond's house is the definition of humble. He has two rooms, one in which he sleeps – and usually, prays – and the other where he does everything else, from what little cooking he can do and eating to washing… and other business. He has a table and chairs, bed, a drawer, even a closet – all of them second hand and pretty poor. He has some dishware, enough to serve his guests tea and even food, if he has some and they don't, but thankfully most people don't expect food. Tea he can do – not real tea, of course, that's way too expensive, but herbal tea of dried herbs, flowers, stuff like that.

Recently he's been experimenting with roasting and boiling dandelion roots, with the vaguest memory of it being something like coffee. He hadn't served it to his guests yet, and probably wouldn't, but in the absence of the real thing…

"I'm sorry, I don't have much to offer," Desmond says, setting down the collection plate and then looking over his rather lacking assortment of ingredients. The peppermint, maybe? He doesn't have much of it, but it would be a bit nicer than the usual clove and chamomile he offers to people.

"Don't bother, it's alright," Claudia says, looking around in his rooms. "You've made this place home."

"I've tried – the people have been nice enough to give me things to decorate it with," Desmond agrees, glancing around. He has decoration of dry flowers made by Bettina, and a candelabra he got from the blacksmith, but he's rarely got enough candles for it. The one piece of decoration he's most fond of is a plank of wood – originally from the old church doors – where Emiliana had roughly drawn with charcoal a picture of a veiled woman, saying it was the Saint Maria.

Of course, Desmond also has a carved wooden cross on the wall, and under it a cabinet which has been serving as a home altar of sorts – his only candles usually end up there, rather than on the candelabra. It's kind of lacking, but the people who visit him for a _chat_ seem to find its presence comforting. It could use an icon, or a painting, but… it's not like he can afford things like that.

"May I?" Claudia asks, motioning to the chairs.

"Of course – please, go ahead," Desmond says, awkward, and looks at the collection plate. He should count it all, figure out how much was there, and then he could start working out on what to put it on. Later, he decides, and turns to join Claudia at the table. "So, what can I help you with, Lady Claudia?" he asks, warily.

He has a feeling this isn't going to be a Confession – except maybe his own.

Claudia considers him and then looks away, at the table – which Desmond hadn't thought to clear. There are papers there – pages of broken, illegible books people had donated to him, which he hadn't been able to do anything with and which he had found new purposes for. "Oh, I'm sorry – I didn't expect guests today –" Desmond starts to say, but it's too late – she's already picking one up.

"You know engineering?" she asks, curious, examining the drawing he'd sketched over the faded writing.

"No, not at all. It was just – idle sketching," Desmond says, awkwardly, quickly bundling up the rest of the pages before she can see the things he'd drawn.

"What is this? Some sort for water container – on top of the villa?" Claudia asks.

Desmond clears his throat. "A – water tower, Lady Claudia," he says, a little dismayed. Shit. "Water flows down, so, if there was a tank – a container – of water above the town, and a pipe to direct the water with, then… then in case of fire, and such, there'd be a quick way to deliver water where it's needed."

Claudia arches her brows. "Getting the water up there would be a task and half," she comments.

Yeah – that was what the rest of the sketches were for, pumps and such. Just as well she didn't see them. "As I said, just idle sketching and musing, it doesn't need to come to anything," Desmond says and accepts the page she's holding out to him. "Thank you."

"You are a very thoughtful man," Claudia comments, watching him. "Not only on a sentimental level – you think about things… quite a bit."

Desmond coughs, setting the pages aside. "I try, Lady Claudia," he answers. A lot of the times there's not much else to do than think, and worry, and panic. "I doubt you're here to comment on my thoughtfulness, though."

"No, but to a thoughtful, considerate man," Claudia hums, "my brother must come across as quite the force to be reckoned with."

 _There it is._ Desmond looks down at his hands, not sure what to say. She doesn't sound mad, but she definitely doesn't sound happy either. "Your brother has a strong personality," he comments.

"And you don't," Claudia says. "You're more passive in nature, aren't you?"

Okay, that's… definitely an insult. Or at least a pretty unkind observation. Desmond sighs and leans back, lifting his eyes to her. "What do you want me to say, Lady Claudia?" he asks quietly.

"I don't know," she admits, looking him up and down and then sighing. "I can see what happened, I don't need an explanation. I just wonder… and fear… how much of it was my brother's insistence. He can be intense."

That's a word for it, Desmond agrees silently, and looks away, to the altar. He should put the candelabra on it, but as he never has enough candles to fill all of its prongs, it would look pretty sad. Maybe a table cloth…

The silence stretches for a while, Claudia watching him while Desmond avoids looking at her. It's getting to the point of awkwardness before she speaks, very quiet. "Did my brother… do something you didn't agree with?"

Desmond turns his eyes to her, taking in her tense, wary expression and shakes his head sharply. "No," he says firmly. "I might've preferred… other things, but it was consensual."

She releases a breath. "But he pushed you to it," she guesses. "And had he not insisted, it might've not happened."

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, watching her. "I'm not _that_ passive, Lady Claudia," he says. "If I really wanted to stop him, I could have."

Claudia arches a brow at that and then steeples her hands, thoughtful. "I see," she murmurs.

Desmond sighs and lifts his rosary in his hand, rubbing one of the beads between forefinger and thumb. _Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted,_ he thinks, and moves to next bead. "Your brother has keen eye for people attracted to him," he says wryly, rubbing the bead. "I would prefer if he didn't act on it, it makes my situation a little awkward."

"Hmm," she answers, her eyes knowing. "He still pursues you."

Desmond snorts and looks down at the rosary. "I guess my reservations make me interesting," he mutters. "I hoped that if I – if it happened once, he might be satisfied and move on, but… apparently not. I've gone from a conquest to a quest."

Claudia lets out a snort at that. "It's always the difficult ones that catch Ezio's eyes," she mutters, watching his face. "Are you going to reject him, the second time?"

Would if he could. Desmond looks down at the rosary, and thinks, _Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted,_ and moves to the next bead.

"You are honestly distressed by the idea, but you can't say no," Claudia guesses. "Is he really _that_ good looking?"

"Hmph, if it was that simple," Desmond mutters and shakes his head. It's not like he can explain the intimacy of having lived a man's life, having them under his skin – being under _their_ skin. He knows Ezio better than he knows himself – that's what makes him so damn weak to the man. Never mind the fact that…

No.

"He's going to get bored of me eventually and move on," Desmond says quietly. "And then it will be… fine." Ezio would do a merry jig on his heart first, maybe, but maybe at the end of it he'd get it back and pretend to put it together again, when Ezio's eyes caught another, much more interesting conquest to tackle, like Caterina Sforza. She is just behind the corner now, isn't she?

Claudia looks at him and her expression is full of sympathy. "Ah," she says and lowers her eyes. She swallows and turns her eyes away, to the altar. "And where will that leave you?"

"Still here, I hope," Desmond says and shakes his head. "Unless you have objections?"

"No, of course not. My brother's… antics don't make you any less of our preacher," Claudia says with a sigh. "I'm only sorry he's doing this."

So is Desmond, and yet he isn't, at the same time. Spiritual conflict at its best. _Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted,_ he thinks and moves to another bead. "He hasn't told you something about me," Desmond says. "At least he told me he didn't…" before having his way with him, in the tunnels. "Knowing might change your mind about letting me stay."

"Hm?" Claudia asks.

"I am an Assassin too," Desmond admits. "Or I was." God only knows what he's now.

Claudia blinks at him and something in her eyes seems to sharpen. "Oh, really?"

Desmond lifts his left hand and snaps the blade out, carefully making sure it won't tear his sleeve coming out. Claudia looks at it, her brows climbing up slowly and then she leans back again.

"My mission's over though – or I hope it is," Desmond says quietly, turning his hand so that the candlelight dances over the blade. It's still in perfect polish. "I came here because I… don't really have any other place to go. If you'd rather not have me here… that's fine." He'd figure something out, somewhere else. Rome, maybe.

"Ezio knows," Claudia says, clarifying.

"I think he figured it out pretty much immediately, yes," Desmond agrees. "Another layer to add to my supposed attractive qualities, I guess."

Claudia rubs her hands together slowly and hums. "So you've never been a part of any church. This is just a disguise," she motions to his robes.

"I'm a faker at almost every level," Desmond agrees ruefully. "But I've tried to be honest with people and make my sermons good. I don't really have the faintest notion what I'm doing, though."

"That much has been obvious from the start," Claudia mutters, considering his blade. "How long have you been an Assassin?"

"Since birth."

"Longer than Ezio, then," Claudia says and leans in a little. "Do you know more of Assassins than does he?"

Desmond gives her a surprised look and then tilts his head, wry. "Yes," he admits. "For now."

"Tell me something he doesn't know."

Desmond blinks at that and then looks at her more closely. That's… huh. She's not asking for Ezio's benefit, or for his either. She's not even asking to make sure he's who he claims he is. She's asking it just for herself. "The way the Brotherhood works now is inefficient. The only reason for its latest victories is the fact that Ezio is a prodigy," Desmond says and looks away, to the door of his bedroom. "He's likely the greatest Assassin who has and ever will live."

Claudia frowns at that, leaning back sharply, obviously dissatisfied with the answer. Desmond smiles. "Back in the time of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad," he says. "The Brotherhood was more structured than it is now, more organised. It had a system of ranks, of offices in major cities – the Assassin Bureaus, which managed initiates and informants, and which supported the working Master Assassins. Ezio does the work of a Master Assassin – but with only a shadow of the support system Altaïr had."

"In short," Desmond says, and moves to another bead, "the Assassin Brotherhood currently is in as good a state… as is Monteriggioni. But neither you nor Ezio realise it, because you have no idea what it used to be like – and your brother's sheer capability kind of pulls the wool over your eyes."

Claudia leans back, frowning. "How do you know that?" she asks.

Desmond shrugs. "I might be passive, Lady Claudia," he says. "It doesn't make me blind." And he has some advantages with time, but it's not like he can speak of that.

Claudia blinks, staring at him thoughtfully for a long moment. "That's why you can't say no to him," she says. "You admire him – you… what, _revere_ him as the second coming of Altaïr?"

Desmond snorts and shakes his head, still eyeing his bedroom door, narrowing his eyes. _Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted,_ he thinks, idly rubbing the rosary. "No, he's not the second coming of Altaïr," he says slowly. "He's something else entirely."

Claudia frowns at him for a long quiet moment and then pushes herself to her feet. "I'd like to invite you to have dinner with me at the Villa – tomorrow," she says, making some decision. "So we may discuss these matters at length."

Desmond turns his eyes to her and leans back a little. "Alright, I would be honoured," he says.

Claudia nods and hesitates. "Tell me, Brother Desmond… if you were to give an Assassin's homily at the church – what would it be like?"

Desmond considers that and looks down at the rosary. "That depends on the crowd I was giving it to," he admits. "The people of Monteriggioni aren't Assassins."

"And if they were?"

Desmond glances away and at the door to his bedroom again. "In the words of Malik Al-Sayf of Masyaf, a Dai of the Levantine Brotherhood in Jerusalem…. _You cannot know anything_ ," he says. " _Only suspect. You can only expect to be wrong, to have overlooked something_. For Nothing is True and Everything is Permitted."

Claudia looks thoughtful.

"Something like that, maybe," he says, and bows his head. "Safety and peace, Lady Claudia."

"Hm," she answers and nods. "Safety and peace, Brother Desmond."

She leaves quietly, closing the door behind her. Desmond looks after her and then down to the rosary he's holding, moving on another bead. He should get up, leave as well, go check up on the church maybe, just… leave. Take the alms to the bank, have them counted and stored properly.

Desmond sighs.

"She's gone," he says instead, inflectionless, not getting up, not looking away from the rosary. "You can come out now."

The bedroom door doesn't make a sound as Ezio opens it, pushing it ajar and then leaning to the doorframe, arms folded, saying nothing. He looks thoughtful, watching Desmond consideringly. Desmond glances up, thinking of saying something, but the look Ezio gives him keeps him quiet, and in the end he only leans back and waits.

Ezio is still in civilian clothing – though he's shed the fancier cape and doublet of his Sunday dress, he's still not in an Assassin's hood. He looks a little lacking without it, a little naked somehow – Desmond almost wishes he had it on, to hide his eyes, the keen, _dangerous_ gleam of them. It makes his heart _throb_ painfully. He can't look away.

Then Ezio moves forward, goes to the front door – to lock it. Desmond's eyes follow him, taking in every move – then his throat clenches, in dismay or desire, he's not sure, as Ezio turns to him… and begins to strip. A vest falls to the floor, and Ezio takes a step towards him. He pulls off his shirt next, and takes another step. Desmond's eyes follow him down as he bends at the waist, taking off one boot and then the other – and then Ezio takes another step.

Desmond clutches onto the rosary, as Ezio shimmies out of his breeches, his hose, leaves them on the floor, and steps in front of him – fully naked, bar from the tie holding his hair back.

The candlelight casts shadows on the curves of his body, teasing their shapes, making the shadows dance in the valleys and plains. Ezio looks… so bare and so strong, slim and muscular and beautiful, scarless aside from the one on his lips.

 _What are you doing,_ Desmond wants to ask, but he can't. Ezio's not saying anything, just standing in front of him, fully nude, not doing anything – aside from getting increasingly more aroused as Desmond stares at him.

An attempt at offering – attempt at not pushing him, maybe? Letting him choose what to do, or what not to do? As if anyone could have a naked Ezio Auditore in front of them and _not_ do something about it. Christ help him. Ezio can't even do _gracious gestures_ without being completely over the top and seductive about it. He's still so fucking young too… Just looking at him makes Desmond feel old, in all of his twenty six years – and four lifetimes.

Ezio is remarkably patient, standing there, still, even after it gets awkward, just watching him, waiting him to do something.

Desmond lets go of the rosary and holds out a hand. Ezio doesn't hesitate, taking it, winding their fingers together, as if for joint prayer. Desmond leans up, holding Ezio's hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it, before drawing him closer, to stand between Desmond's knees, Ezio's bare legs brushing against the hem of his habit… close enough to touch.

The sigh Ezio lets out quivers, as Desmond touches his leg, curling his fingers behind his calf, running it up.

 _You're being stupid,_ Desmond thinks, running his palm up slowly, covering as much skin as he can. _Claudia was just here_. _What are you thinking_? _What were you thinking? Why are you here? What did you think would happen?_

He leans forward and presses his lips on the skin over Ezio's hip bone, where it's thin, where the muscles of his stomach swell up. He smells clean, like soap, like rain. Ezio's hand comes to rest on his head, but he still doesn't say anything, doesn't try to urge him to do something, so, Desmond touches his fill, releasing Ezio's hand and just running his hands over the shape of him, his legs, hips, back, everything, just rubbing his hands greedily, slowly, up and down over the skin he can reach, touching everything.

 _What do you think will happen here?_ Desmond thinks, kissing Ezio's stomach, his hips, his thighs. _Where do you think this will lead?_

Ezio sighs, swaying into his touches, and when Desmond gets his hands around his thighs and urges him closer, he comes, stepping forward and then, oh so slowly, moving to straddle Desmond in the chair. He's fully aroused now, his dick bobbling lightly between them as he shuffles closer, to settle in Desmond's lap.

Still not saying anything.

Desmond runs his hands up Ezio's sides, digging his thumbs in enough to feel his ribs, the line under his pecs, the strong sinews under skin. Ezio's leaning over him slightly, but though he obviously wants it, licking his lips, he's not going for a kiss. The closest to it he gets is resting a hand on the backrest beside Desmond's head, still waiting, following his lead.

_What even is this?_

Desmond runs his hand behind Ezio's back, feeling the tension around his spine, running his fingers up alongside it, counting the vertebrae, like the beads of a rosary, _Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted, Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted, Nothing is True…_

Until he is cupping Ezio's neck, and Ezio is looking down at him, just a hair's width from rubbing himself against Desmond, breathless with anticipation. Desmond runs his palms around the sides of Ezio's neck, his fingertips in his hair, his thumbs following the lines under Ezio's jaw. Ezio's all but vibrating with need now.

_What are you trying to prove?_

Ezio's still not saying anything, and it makes Desmond want to make him, makes him want to drag it out and make him… break. Maybe that's what Ezio saw in him too, a hint of restraint and self control to be broken through. How messed up is that?

Desmond leans back, settles in more comfortably under Ezio, and then he touches some more while Ezio tries and fails not to look frustrated and needy. He's trying oh so hard to stay still, as Desmond rubs at his shoulders and feels at his biceps, takes his arms gently and then spreads them out to the side, teasing along the wrists. Arms spread out, Ezio looks like a statue, it makes Desmond want to bite _him,_ but he holds back, leaves Ezio's arms in the air, and puts his hands on his ribs again, feeling his fill.

He can feel the desperate thud of Ezio's heart, the way he tries to control his breathing – it stutters, halts, starts only to stutter again. He wants to sigh and moan and probably complain, but he doesn't, swallowing it all down as Desmond runs his hands over him, down across his chest, too light to be pleasing, too strong for him to ignore.

Desmond digs his thumbs lightly into the bend of Ezio's thighs, where the skin stretches at the hip bone, just an inch from touching his crotch. Ezio's hips quiver, his thigh muscles tense – he wants to move, but doesn't. His eyes are low-lidded and staring hard, as he strains to obey Desmond's nonverbal commands.

Desmond's never been into this sort of thing, whatever this is. Some sort of roleplay, or a neighbour of BDSM, whatever. Ezio makes him want, though. What, precisely, he can't quite put into words, but… he wants.

Lifting a hand, Desmond presses it in the middle of Ezio's chest, just testing, wanting to see how far Ezio will let him push this. With his other hand firmly at Ezio's hip, he pushes back – and Ezio bends, releasing a loud sigh as he bends backwards at the waist, the muscles of his stomach and chest stretching, gloriously on display, as Desmond runs his hand over him, feeling the tension at his core, the nimbleness of his body as he bends and bends, his knees clamping around Desmond's hips to keep him from falling.

 _Fuck,_ he looks so good. Like a model, or a stripper – statuesque sin incarnate.

Desmond holds Ezio there, keeping him arched until he starts to shake with the strain. When Ezio finally, helplessly, lets out a noise of discomfort, Desmond pulls him back up by the waist, watching his lips part to drag a breath, watching his eyelids flutter – he looks surprised and _excited,_ his dick dripping precum and his face flushed. Christ, Ezio's really letting him do this, huh?

Desmond could probably fuck Ezio dry, and he might actually let him.

Desmond stares at Ezio's face, taking in the heavier breathing, the low lidded eyes, and then he shifts forward. Ezio lets out a quiet gasp as the move pins his dick between them, but tries to hold still – until Desmond puts his hands on his ass and pulls him closer. The little noise of "Nh!" that Ezio lets out and how he bites his lip on the rest goes right through Desmond.

_That's enough._

Without a word, Desmond hauls Ezio closer and then stands up. Alarmed, Ezio manages just in time to grab a hold of his shoulders, wrapping his bare legs around Desmond's waist, as Desmond lifts him bodily up and carries him to the bedroom, where he might spread Ezio out and do what he wants with him. Except it wouldn't be cruel or unkind, because, even if Ezio might let him and even if a part of Desmond really wants to see him suffer a bit for a change… Desmond can't ever hurt him.

He loves this sinful asshole too damn much for that.


	13. Chapter 13

"Why are you so determined to be unhappy?"

Brother Desmond doesn't answer, and Ezio looks down from the ceiling to his back. The other man is sitting at the edge of the bed, still completely naked, rosary in hand, rubbing the beads. He doesn't look like he's praying, but he's clutching onto the rosary tightly, as if it might offer him some answers. As if it's his last lifeline.

"Why not simply enjoy what's there and let things come and go as they do?" Ezio asks, turning to lie on his side. His whole body feels lethargic and he rather would like to curl down and sleep – but this can't wait. "Every time I look at you, you're so sad. Why?"

"Not something I can really control," Brother Desmond says, rubbing the rosary bead between thumb and forefinger and them moving to the next – so maybe he's praying after all, silently, in the privacy of his mind. "You wouldn't have to see it if you just left me alone."

It's said wryly, but without resentment, so Ezio doesn't take it personally. Shifting closer, Ezio runs the backs of his fingers down Desmond's bare back, over his spine – still a little damp with sweat but cooler now, quickly drying.

"I can't leave you alone when you're so miserable," Ezio says. "I do not leave lovers miserable."

"That would be the pride talking. Pride is a mortal sin, you know," Desmond comments wryly, not looking at him.

"You don't believe in sin, and neither do I. What are you praying for?"

Desmond looks down to the rosary, shifting his hand, making the beads clatter. Then he wraps it around his hand and sighs, turning to look at him over his shoulder. "Clarity in void," he says. " _Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted_."

"Oh. _That_."

Desmond arches his brow at him and turns so that his left leg is fully on the bed, his knee bent. "That's a telling tone of voice," he comments, looking a little surprised. "You know what it is, right?"

"Uncle Mario told me that – I don't know what it means. Nothing is true, what does that mean?" Ezio mutters, shifting closer so that he can curl around Desmond's back and kiss his knee. "Nothing is true? Many things are true. You are true, your skin tastes of sweat, that is true. You are warm and lovely to touch, that's true also."

Desmond says nothing as he creeps his fingers around the man's thigh, sliding them lower, where his body is warmer. He's still wearing the cross of iron around his neck, too, it hangs over his midriff, and curiously Ezio flicks his fingers over it, sending it swaying.

"Everyone sees it differently. For me… _Nothing is True_ means that lot of things in life are… make-believe," Desmond says quietly. "Laws, rules, religion – it's all fiction we follow because we've agreed it matters and should be followed. Not sure how it applies to physical things. Things you can prove by touch… taste..."

Ezio kisses his knee again, and watches Desmond's eyelids flutter. "Like laws against sodomy?" He asks, smiling. "Laws against men loving men? Hm?"

Desmond swallows and says nothing.

Ezio smiles wider and mouths at his skin. "And Everything is permitted?"

Desmond sighs and reaches the rosary-woven hand for him, running his fingers into Ezio's hair. Ezio hums, kissing his knee again, slightly above the previous kiss. "If _Nothing is True_ , and so many things are just fiction," Desmond says. "Then everything those laws forbid is actually permitted. There is no divine higher authority to judge you for your actions, they're all permitted. The only rule you have to follow is that of your own conscience."

"You don't believe in God," Ezio surmises.

The rosary clatters at his ear, as Desmond pushes the loose strands of his hair behind it. "I don't know what I believe in anymore," he admits quietly. "Aside from the fact that this…." he looks down at where Ezio is mouthing at his skin, "is a bad idea."

"Bad ideas are the best ideas," Ezio says, grinning, and sneaks his fingers to Desmond's bare crotch.

Desmond lets out a breath, resigned, and takes his hand away with his free hand, unadorned by the rosary. "You'd think so," he murmurs, winding their fingers together.

"I know so," Ezio says and lifts himself to one elbow, bringing the hand close enough to kiss it. "Why the resignation, my love? We fit so well together, make such great love together – and you _adore_ me. Why be so upset now?"

Desmond bows his head and Ezio shifts closer, putting a hand on the mattress so that he can reach to kiss Desmond's side instead, his ribs. "Why can't you just take the pleasure and be happy with it? Why must it be so complicated? We could have great joy together, if you only stopped worrying."

"Again, not something I have control over," Desmond murmurs, looking down at him. "Ezio, please."

Ezio presses a caressing kiss on the edge of his chest and then sits up, pressed against the Brother's side, curling his arm around his body. "You love me," he murmurs. "So quickly."

Desmond looks away - embarrassed, shamed, afraid, Ezio can't tell, but his body tenses.

"You do," Ezio says, watching the side of his face, handsome even in the shadows of his bedroom, handsome even in this crude setting. Maybe more so. Between them, Desmond's hand holding the rosary falls. "I'm not sorry of it, nor would I mock you for it," Ezio murmurs. "I'm grateful. I'm humbled. I am _pleased_."

"I'm not," Desmond murmurs and sways as Ezio kisses his neck, still tense. Ezio runs his hands over his back, his side, trying to coax tense, corded muscles to ease, but they refuse.

"Love shouldn't hurt," Ezio says. "Why are you so stiff? You love me, isn't it lovely?"

Desmond sighs, bowing his head.

"You think I won't ever love you back?" Ezio asks, mouthing at his shoulder.

"You won't," Desmond says.

The cold, factual certainty of it almost makes Ezio hesitate – almost. It also makes him a little angry, for a reason he can't quite explain. Before he knows what he is even planning, he has Desmond on his back on the narrow bed, and is rising on his hands and knees above him, to make sure he is looking at him.

"You can't know that," he says firmly. "You _don't_ know that."

Desmond swallows under him, resting the rosary-adorned hand on his chest, and doesn't say anything. He just looks resigned and suffering – like an image on a religious painting, a monk, an angel, a _saint_ in the act of religious suffering, with two crosses strung across his chest and the dark rosary beads standing in stark contrast against is bare skin.

Ezio leans back so that he can run a hand over Desmond's chest and grab a hold of the cross around his neck, tugging at it lightly to make sure his attention is on him. "You might have heard stories of me, of my ways," he says, twisting his hand around the chain. "But I _can_ love. I enjoy lust, yes, I don't shy from pleasures of flesh… but I love, too. I could love you."

Desmond says nothing, just stares at him, conflicted.

"If you'd let me," Ezio says, tugging at the chain. "If you'd stopped shying away from the very idea that I could desire you for other reasons than those of pleasure. Which, yes, are pleasant… but there's enough in you to love."

"Christ," Desmond murmurs, closing his eyes. "Save me."

Whether he's actually praying or telling Ezio to shut up, Ezio can't tell – he doesn't care. He leans over Desmond to kiss him, to settle his weight over him, bodily holding him down and in place.

"You cannot know anything," Ezio says quietly. "That's what you said. You cannot know anything, only suspect, only expect to be wrong. And here, Brother Desmond, you are wrong. I _could_ love you, I _can_ love you. Whatever you think I am… There's space enough there for love."

"Why would you?" Desmond asks tightly. "There's a world of better people out there, I'm just –" he stops, his throat clicking as he swallows.

"An Assassin. A priest in all but law," Ezio comments. "Kind, charitable, understanding. You're good for this community and you've only begun – I can't wait to see what changes will be made in a few months, in a few years. I want to see how your services change, once you shake away your shyness. How you settle into your skin. I can _taste it_ ," he pauses, to press a kiss on Desmond's chin. "The confidence you hide under attempts of humility. I want to see it grow. I want to be the cause of it growing."

Desmond drags a shuddering breath. "Damn it, Ezio," he murmurs, and Ezio can see the track of a tear, leaking down over his temple.

Quickly Ezio leans over him, to kiss it away, before leaning his elbows on each side of Desmond's head, looking down on him. Between, the rosary clatters, soft and quiet. "Take a Leap of Faith," Ezio urges him. "Please."

Desmond's breath catches, and Ezio kisses him before he can come up with a complaint, and kisses him again when he still tries to argue, and keeps on kissing him until he relents, lets the rosary fall to the floor, and reaches to embrace him instead.

It will take more than this to change Desmond's mind, Ezio can tell. The man has many reservations, most of them unspoken and secretive, which Ezio doubts Desmond will ever share with him. Whatever happened to him in his past, whatever made him lay down his arms… it weighs on him with the pressure of terrible, unspoken guilt. Not so bad as to make him worry about consequences, Ezio is sure of it, but enough to make him doubt _everything_.

If Ezio were to wager a guess, he'd say Desmond had lost something personal – the loss of which was painful, so much so that it has made the man wary of his heart, wary of all things that could hurt it, like love. And Ezio isn't sure how he likes to be seen as the ultimate threat to it.

He's used to people finding joy in him, momentary pleasure. He's even used to people falling in love with him – but only for a day, for a moment, for an hour and no longer. This sort of all encompassing painful love, this is new. It's terrible. It makes him think of Christina, whom he'd once loved, and still did, and who now had a husband and hopefully did not think about him much at all.

Desmond's love for him is a little like his love was for Christina – only worse. Because Desmond, Ezio feels, is a man who will be loyal – who, if he were to make vows, would keep them always. Ezio could turn his mind away from Christina and find joy and pleasure in the arms of another – Desmond, he thinks, would not.

It could be a burden, if one chose to see it as such. A terrible, uncomfortable duty, to carry such a weight as another's heart. Once, Ezio might've seen it as such, and shied away from it.

Now, he takes Desmond's hand and kisses his palm. "I will see you soon," he says. "I will bring you flowers."

Desmond believes him and despairs – but his fingers caress Ezio's lips before he draws his hand away. "Alright," he says with a sigh. "I'm coming over for dinner tomorrow – no, tonight, I think," he says, peering towards the shuttered window. "Lady Claudia invited me."

"Then, at the latest, I will see you then," Ezio says, kisses his hand again and then rises from the bed.

It's dawn, as he steps out of Desmond's house – morning dew still lingers on roof tiles and glass windows, glistening in the light of the rising sun.

It would be a beautiful, clear day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna leave it there.


End file.
